


Oleander Wine

by AvaMclean



Series: Miles to Go [3]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Jossverse, Supernatural
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-28
Updated: 2013-02-25
Packaged: 2017-11-19 17:43:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 50,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/575922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AvaMclean/pseuds/AvaMclean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She couldn’t sacrifice Angel. Not again. So she damned herself in his stead. The life Buffy came back to is very much the same. Too bad it’s not hers anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Resurrection

Title :: Oleander Wine  
Series :: Miles to Go  
Rating :: FR18  
Disclaimer :: Supernatural and all related characters are copyright Eric Kripke, Kripke Enterprises & The CW Network. No infringement intended. Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all related characters are copyright Joss Whedon and ME. No infringement intended.  
Beta :: [Demona](http://www.tthfanfic.org/AuthorStories-595/Demona.htm)  
Spoilers :: SPN season 4 episodes _“Lazarus Rising,”_ _“Are you there, God? It’s me, Dean Winchester”_ and _“Heaven and Hell”_  
 ******* Note :: For this story season 2 of BtVS happened concurrently with season 3 of SPN. Which means that this work of fiction takes place in the year 2008 with all of the pop culture and technology that year has to offer. *******

Synopsis :: She couldn’t sacrifice Angel. Not again. So she damned herself in his stead. The life Buffy came back to is very much the same. Too bad it’s not hers anymore.

Chapter 1: Resurrection

Grief choked her, tightening her throat as her heart gave an uneven lurch and his cold lips parted above her own. She rose on tiptoe, pushing her mouth against Angel’s until it warmed under the careless embrace and her fingers flexed. Creating shadowed indents along his jaw as the kiss opened wider, attempting to swallow them and Buffy pulled back, ran her tongue along the inside seam of his upper lip before bringing the sword forward and across his angled hip.

He jerked, spine straightening as the ensouled vampire pulled himself up and back, opening his eyes to stare down at her in confusion. His mouth opened as if to question her and cast more doubt across the resolve that was forming in the back of her mind. The hand caging his jaw tensed and her nostrils flared, teeth grinding as Buffy swallowed the urge to cry, to scream and ordered, her voice a broken whisper, “Close your eyes.” 

Dark lashes lowered, blocking the sight of his trusting, too trusting, gaze and Buffy stepped back, her fingers tightening around the leather-wrapped handle of the sword. The worn rawhide sat comfortable in her palm as the hand cupping his chin loosened, dropped to curve around his shoulder and she spun them, putting herself before the stretching jaws of Acathla. The sword arched forward, the hilt striking his sternum and forcing Angel to stumble back. His eyes opened, widening as she brought her outstretched hand rushing back toward her center, using her free hand to guide the blade, smeared with his blood, into her abdomen. 

Her lips parted and her next breath hitched as the pain sliced through her a moment after the cold metal and she watched those dark eyes narrow. The line of his mouth curved upward as he stepped forward and shadows descended while the room tilted and Buffy flinched as hissing moans and terrified screams filled the silence in her head. Her next breath shuddered outward, a death rattle that brought the fine hairs along the back of her neck up, skin prickling as lightning arced across the cloud covered sky and she swallowed past the taste of pennies. 

He leaned over her, his fathomless gaze paled, green bleeding in along the edge and through the brown, stealing away all traces of warmth and compassion, as a light spread of freckles appeared across the bridge of his nose and his face reformed. Buffy hiccupped, holding back the sob that always threatened to debase her when he did this, when he brought her to Alastair and set her up so perfectly to be shattered and torn into hundreds of bloody broken pieces—echoes of herself. 

He cupped the worn leather of the handle and leaned into it, pushed the blade deeper, sawing down before his fingers tightened and his arm tensed, drawing it out. Her back arched, spine bowing as the blade tore from her skin and speckled her chest and face in a warm spray. Tears gathered in her lashes as her jaw tensed and she swallowed her scream, pushed a hissing breath between clenched teeth in its stead. 

Those pale green eyes narrowed and his head inclined before he spun, raised the sword and Buffy winced, flinching away from him and more pain as another inhabitant of hell made itself known. Their very presence quieted the din, the screams of so many countless others faded as a being of light and shadow leached its way forward and her tormentor collapsed, blade clattering, useless and blood soaked, against a floor that didn’t truly exist. 

The being reached her captor and knelt, gripped his shoulders and rose, pulling him to his feet before it turned and she felt it’s considering gaze flow over her worn and beaten form. Her tongue eased out, wet her dry lips, before she pleaded in a hoarse whisper, “Please.” 

The screams roared up around them, sudden and without warning. Becoming a wail, an alarm that thrummed over her senses and tightened every fiber in her being as a terror so deep, beyond anything Alastair had ever inflicted, cemented in her core. More tears leaked from the corners of her eyes as the shadows hovering over the invader gave way to a pure and radiant light that illuminated that small pocket of hell. The screams faded, replaced by hushed and senseless whispers and she flinched as the light struck a focal point and her shoulder jerked, her body suddenly engulfed in its brilliance and the pain lacerating her was swept away in the wash of it as she was dragged upward and inward in the same instant and then there was nothing.

~*~

Blissful quiet greeted Buffy as she came back to awareness and she lifted her chin, the soft pillow beneath her head flattening as her eyes opened, pupils spiraling outward when a darkness so pure, so complete filled her world. Small hands lifted, the backs of her wrists striking satin-lined wood that thudded with the contact and her next breath came out as a whimper as her fingers became claws and she jerked at the tightly laid cloth. It tore beneath her nails, shredding as her flesh, her soul had beneath Alastair’s careful movements.

Her stomach twisted, chest tightening as panic threatened to choke her, force her back into the hell of her memories until her knuckles struck wood, drew blood. Her hands became fists and pummeled the pine above her, pushing through the well lined wood and allowing in a wave of cold, soft soil. It coated her hands, stung the open abrasions along her knuckles and spilled across her face and her eyes closed as more dirt and rock rained down upon her. 

Fingers curved, clawing around the edge of the small opening before she jerked her arms, broke the last barrier and the rain of dirt became a downpour as she pushed and pulled her way back up through the earth. Something wet and smooth brushed her cheek and she ignored it, ignored the pain in her chest and lungs as the will to breathe threatened to have her choking on dirt as she continued to push her way upward. The soil above her concaved, sucking down and the small tunnel surrounding her form tightened, narrowed her world further just as she broke through. 

The grass beneath her hands was warm from the sun as she caught handfuls of it, used it to anchor her weight as she tugged her shoulders and head free, back arching as she drew in her first lung full of fresh air. She coughed, choking on the bit of grave-dirt that had violated her mouth as Buffy continued to tug and pull herself free of the ever-tightening hole. The dirt collapsed around her hips as she tried to slip them through the narrow opening and her hands flexed, fingers curving downward, finding purchase where they could as she grunted and shifted her thighs to help widen the tunnel. 

A burning replaced the straining ache in her muscles and her right shoulder screamed in protest as she lunged forward and caught another handful of sod and earth. Anchored herself further as she pulled her hips and thighs free of the hole before slumping to her side and coughing as the sun engulfed her worn and whole body. She pushed herself onto her back, gazed up at the cloudless blue sky as she gasped for breath and marveled at the fact that she did need to breathe, did feel something other than pain as her muscles quivered and shook from exhaustion. 

Her head turned, chin falling against her shoulder and she caught sight of the marker above her grave. Elbows dug into the grass as Buffy pushed her upper body up, lifting her shoulders as she scanned the delicately carved letters that made up her name and the dates of her life from beginning to end separated by a dash. Her head inclined, dirt matted hair spilling around her shoulders as she focused on the words beneath the facts of her life, _“Beloved daughter, devoted friend. We will remember.”_

A line appeared between her brows and she caught the small wall of granite with her left hand, still favoring her right shoulder, and used it to help her rise onto bare feet. Her toes wiggled against the grass and she stared down at them a moment, confused by the lack of shoes before her gaze strayed to the small dark hole she’d just vacated. Her mouth dipped at the corners and she dragged her focus away from her grave to the surrounding area and the sight of it dried her throat, left an acidic taste in her mouth. 

The statues and graves close to her own were perfect, unmarred, but past those few laid devastation. Tombstones were broken, statues and mausoleums fractured or utterly destroyed, barely rubble in the grass. The few trees spread out across the cemetery had been flattened, their dark roots exposed to the bright sunlight and tears burned her throat as she stumbled forward, past the ruin of her surroundings and toward the, still somewhat intact, gravel walkway that would hopefully lead her toward the road and civilization. 

She winced when her feet struck the hard rocks and she shifted to the side of them, following the white trail and keeping her gaze forward, away from the desolation mirrored on either side of her. A light breeze slipped up from behind Buffy and brought a wave of goosebumps up over her exposed back. She shivered, marveling at the sensation of being cold after so long and paused, suddenly uncertain. She turned, looked back at the ruin behind her and the hole that had held her body and Buffy wished it had held her spirit, protected it. Protected her from Alastair and his favored pupil—she shivered again, but not from the cold and turned forward. 

The thin strap holding the front of her dress up slipped along her right shoulder and the soft fabric grazed her skin, bringing with it a wash of white hot pain that staggered her steps. Buffy hesitated in stopping, in looking down at her wounded shoulder where the being had gripped her tight, dragged her out of hell and into her coffin. Green eyes closed, dark lashes resting against dirt smeared cheeks before she inhaled sharply and opened her eyes, turned her head and gasped. 

Red skin, welted and raised in the form of a handprint cupping her shoulder stared back at her and Buffy dipped her shoulder, rolling it forward to see the wide expanse of the being’s spread fingers. Her left hand lifted and she ignored the sight of her bloody and bruised knuckles as she gently settled her small hand over the vibrant mark, still hot to the touch. The line between her brows reformed as her softly whispered words brought with them a coughing fit as she asked the vacant cemetery. 

“What in hell brought me back?”


	2. Revelation

Chapter 2: Revelation

Her next step was a stumble and Buffy winced as her ankle twisted, torquing her knee and she used the paneled side of a house for balance as thirst and fatigue threatened to spill her on her ass. She closed her eyes, chin falling toward her chest as she welcomed the small reprieve from the sun the narrow awning above her created as Buffy tried, and failed, to steady her erratic breathing. Pushing herself away from the occupied home and swallowing past her dried throat, she slipped along the back of the house and into the wide yard, hesitating when she saw the clothesline and several shirts flapping in the breeze.

Bare shoulders squared, already red from the California sunshine and the handprint remained a vibrant contrast against her smooth skin as she made her way forward, through the small cluster of nylon and cotton. Dirt caked hands reached out, snagged a white button up from the line and dragged it up her arms, covering them and her shoulders from the ever rising sun. Buffy settled the smooth fabric over the burn with a gentle touch before adjusting the sections around her neck. 

Smearing dirt over the freshly starched collar, she shifted direction and made her way further from the scene of her thievery and closer to Joyce, to home. The sun rose higher, spilling over the crown of her head and raising her body temperature while Buffy kept her steps light and firmly in the grass, far from the heated sidewalk and asphalt. Sweat trickled down the back of her neck, creating muddy trails beneath the once pristine shirt as she drew nearer to Revello Drive and sanctuary. 

Her steps faltered as she caught sight of the front of her home, the vaguely familiar wooden door with its three small panels of glass reflecting the sun’s persistent glare. White teeth tugged at her lower lip and she wavered, ignored the bitter taste of earth as she became unsure of herself and her place. Buffy swallowed, a harsh movement that contorted her features as she coughed, her next few breaths becoming a wheezing struggle. 

The attack subsided after several pain-filled moments and Buffy righted herself, stared at the strangely empty porch before her head inclined and she made her way forward. A knot formed in her stomach as she caught sight of the vacant living room—void of all furniture and life—through the window to the right of the front door. 

“No.” 

Buffy winced at the hoarseness of her own voice even as her bare feet carried her up the few steps from the front walk to the front door. She caught the brass handle with her right hand and flattened her left against the doorframe and pushed, ignored the sudden onslaught of pain from her shoulder, as the deadbolt gave under the force. The door yawned its way open and she stepped inside, nose wrinkling with the musty smell as she caught the edge of the door and brought it closed, as best she could, behind her. 

The quiet of the house raised the hair of her arms as the urge to scream warred with the sudden wash of terror that she hadn’t escaped hell and this was just another mind-fuck. A hand rose to cup her chin, curve fingers around her mouth and muffle the cry of desperation as tears eased their way through her lashes and slipped outward and down the slopes of her cheeks. They struck her hand, found the seam created by her palm and thumb and gathered there. 

She released her face, shook off the dampness, the useless show of emotion before making her way through the empty home. Toward the kitchen as her thirst returned, reminding her harshly of its presence. Her hand caught the faucet, flipping it on and she sent a silent thank you skyward when it sputtered to life before dipping her head, one hand holding back her hair as she swallowed mouthful after mouthful of water. Several slurping minutes passed before her thirst was quenched enough for Buffy to pull back and straighten her now aching back. 

Her fingers wrapped around the metal lip of the sink and green eyes narrowed, focused on the broken and bruised condition of her hands and the dirt caked around and under her nails. Her mouth thinned, lips pulling down at the corners as she forced those hands under the steady stream from the faucet. Water sliced across her abused flesh and her teeth ground with the sharp reminder that her coffin hadn’t been the easiest thing to break open with six feet of dirt lying atop it. 

She stretched her fingers, spreading them wide and watched as the dried blood cracked, slipping away with the cascading water and creating rust colored trails down the drain. Buffy turned her hands over, pushed at the blood and darker bits hiding in the cracks and wrinkles in her skin until she had at least one portion of her body clean and free from dirt. The water trickled to a stop as she slowly lowered the handle and turned, shaking her hands off before taking inventory of the nearby cabinets. 

A blue and white checkered towel was clutched in her hands, the only remnant of Joyce and her life before that she could find, and her fingers tightened, twisting the worn cloth as Buffy made her way out of the kitchen and down the short hall into the dining room. A low buzzing lifted the hairs along the back of her neck and she winced, turning toward the window looking out onto the front lawn. The glass vibrated, bending as the buzz became a whistle that propelled her backwards, into to the relative safety of the hallway, as the glass fractured.

Pale hands tensed, the towel tearing in two as the whistle rose in volume and the window shattered, spraying glass against the opposite wall. The whistle dipped, twisted into senseless chatter and more windows gave way under the pressure that drove Buffy to her knees. 

The chatter tightened her stomach, bent her over and then, with an audible pop, it narrowed into one voice that stated, with great conviction, “Buffy Summers, you have been saved.” 

The ringing in her ears intensified with the silent vacuum left behind by those softly spoken words, but the pressure that had brought on the shattering of the windows remained and Buffy shifted under the weight of it. She had to clear her throat twice before she could manage, “Who,” her brows dipped and she instantly corrected, “What are you?” 

Her head lifted as the chatter returned, softer this time, a hundred whispers, moving in tandem as they repeated the same name, “Castiel.” There was a pause and Buffy used the slight reprieve to rise to her feet, steady herself against the wall as the whispers rose in pitch and then snapped into focus and the same unhurried voice stated, “I am an Angel of the Lord.” 

“Oh.” Her head lifted, a line forming between her brows. “Huh?”

~*~

Blood speckled across a pane of glass and Buffy winced, stepping back from her knock and the terrace doors that led into Willow’s bedroom. Her mouth dipped as she caught sight of her reflection in one of the multiple panels and a hand half rose to wrestle with the matted mess that her hair had become as the door directly in front of her swung inward and she was suddenly staring into the kindest eyes she’d seen in decades. The sunlight streaming in behind her highlighted the red undertones to Willow’s neatly arranged hair and Buffy’s head cocked, lips quirking as she stated, “You cut your hair.”

Those kind eyes filled with shock, which was quickly overrun by fear as Willow stumbled back from the entryway and toward the curtains beside the closed door. Buffy’s head inclined as she watched her disappear and she stepped forward, over the threshold and onto tan carpet. White appeared around the pale green of Willow’s irises as her eyes became impossibly wide and her narrow shoulders shook beneath a fuzzy teal sweater embroidered with pink and lavender flowers. 

Buffy’s gaze locked on the delicate stitching around a lily, stared at it transfixed by the in and out threading as it brought forth a sensory memory of needles—hundreds of needles piercing, stabbing—her hands clenched before they rose to absently catch the wooden object Willow tossed at her. Buffy blinked, lashes dipping as she ducked her head and studied the cross now clutched in her abused hands. The simple lines of it held her focus a moment longer before her chin lifted and she saw that Willow’s fear was slowly being replaced by something close to wonder. 

“Not a vampire,” she flinched at the raspy tone to her own voice and added, “Also, it’s day.” 

Willow’s mouth opened, gaze shifting toward her sun-filled backyard before she refocused and questioned, her voice hesitant, “Buffy?”

“Yeah, Will. It’s me. In the flesh,” she glanced down at herself and then back up, a small shrug lifting her shoulders, “and dirt.” 

“Buffy?” Tears filled those pale eyes before Willow gave one last shout of her name and leapt forward. Buffy stumbled under the sudden impact and braced a foot behind her as Willow’s surprisingly tight grip wound its way across her shoulders. A damp face buried itself against her neck and Buffy’s chest shuddered, fear tightening the muscles in her arms and hands, the cross cracked under the pressure as she resisted the urge to push away the first comforting touch she felt in too long. 

She tucked her chin over Willow’s shoulder, but kept her hands between them, kept the physical contact between them to a minimum. The body pressed against hers stiffened as Willow slowly came to this realization and began to pull back, her arms falling away until only her hands remained, cupping Buffy’s shoulders as she studied her face, mouth dipping. 

“Buffy, what are you doing here?” Willow’s eyes widened and her hands slipped away as she stepped back and over her own words. “Not that I’m not happy to see you! Ecstatic is a better word, but you’re… well… you’re dead.” Her brow rose and Willow flinched. “You were dead, right? I mean, Xander and Giles found you and you were… you were…” 

She trailed off with more tears slipping from the corner of her eyes and Willow averted her gaze as Buffy flinched and conceded. “I was dead.” 

“So how are you undead?” Willow frowned at her own word choice, but kept the question hanging between them. 

_Castiel._

Buffy winced and lied, “I’m not entirely sure. One minute I’m in hell and the next I’m six feet under—” Buffy cut herself off as the color rapidly left Willow’s already pale features. She took a step forward as the teenager gave on uneven sway and stumbled back. 

“You were in,” her voice dipped to a whisper, “hell?” She turned away from Buffy, chanting softly, “Oh no,” over and over. 

“Willow!” The redhead stiffened, paused a moment to regroup before she spun back around and Buffy’s gaze flitted over every nuance of her carefully blank mask that was already beginning to crumble along the edges as horror darkened the pale green of Willow’s eyes, crystallized them as they filled with tears. Buffy licked her dry lips before stating, “I need a shower.” 

There was a pregnant pause, a moment of perfect silence before Willow snapped to attention, latching onto something she could readily fix and hurried toward her closet. A terry cloth robe suddenly filled those busy hands as Willow ushered Buffy forward, snatching the broken remains of the cross from her hands and thrusting the robe into them. Her bruised fingers buried themselves in the soft cloth and her thumb absently traced the turtle stitched onto the front, above a uselessly small pocket. 

Buffy found herself following the bobbing redhead from the room and down one of the halls of the one story, ranch-style home. The carpet in the hall was a matching tan to Willow’s bedroom and Buffy winced as she left a trail of dirt behind her. She hesitated at the door Willow opened for her, glancing inside at the white on white tile and walls before she turned toward the person who had once been her best friend. 

“Willow?” Her head inclined and Buffy rushed on with, “I’m not ready to see the others yet.” She wasn’t sure if she’d ever be, not entirely, but Buffy pushed on past her own fears and the uncertainty in Willow’s gaze. “Not yet. Soon, but just not yet.” 

“Soon?” Those green eyes softened as understanding dawned and Willow nodded slowly. 

The tentative agreement had some of the pent-up tension in Buffy’s chest loosening as she returned the nod and reiterated, “Soon,” with more conviction then she felt.

~*~

Thin fingers shifted through damp hair with a plastic comb, detangling snarls and knots as they worked their way from bottom to top and Buffy ignored the tightness in her hands, the stiffening of her knuckles as she forced them to move as she silently studied Willow’s room. The corkboard between the currently open bedroom door and the bed held a virtual treasure-trove of Willow’s newest accomplishments and pictures of her and Oz. She noticed one image tucked under a ribbon that showed the couple pressed check to check and smiling up at the camera, her mouth curved upward in response.

“Buffy?” She turned at the hesitant tone and saw Willow filling the doorway, her smile weak as she twisted her fingers around a glass of water. “I put your clothes in the washer. Though they might be a lost cause,” she winced and rushed on, “but I’m sure I have something here that you can borrow and there are a couple of things I kept because-because…”

“Willow.” The redhead bit her lip and trailed off as Buffy assured her, “I get it. It’s awkward.” 

“But I don’t want it to be!” 

Buffy shrugged, dropping her hands from her hair and took a step forward. “But it will be. Kinda has to.” 

Willow shook her head and made her way further into the room, past Buffy to place the glass of water onto the nightstand before taking a seat on the foot of her bed. With a determined glint in her eye she patted the space beside her. “Sit.” 

A brow arched in response, but Buffy did as told and sat. The mattress compressed under her light weight and for a moment she was startled by the comfort of it before she blinked, refocused and turned to face Willow, tucking one leg beneath her as she shifted. The intensity of the redhead’s gaze was odd, but she remained silent under the steady perusal as she waited for Willow to calm down—if only a little. 

“I missed you.” 

A smile tugged at her mouth with Willow’s first choice of words and she inclined her head before replying. “I missed you too.” 

“It was bad.” Willow’s shoulders dropped a bit with her soft statement before they steeled and she added, “Things were harder without you. Giles was-was lost and Xander didn’t talk much after… after… they found you.” 

Her lashes dipped and Buffy winced. “I’m sorry—”

“No!” Willow flinched at her own shout, but rushed on with, “I’m not saying this to make you feel bad. I’m trying to tell you,” she frowned, “I don’t know what I’m trying to tell you.” 

Buffy tucked her hands into her lap, fingers twisting around the comb before she asked, “Was it horrible? For them, was it horrible?” 

She glanced up, met Willow’s wounded stare with one of her own as the redhead whispered, “Giles said you had been wrapped in white and laid on a bed,” she swallowed once before adding, her voice softer still, “Angel cleaned you and put jasmines in your hair.” 

Buffy swallowed, her stomach opening with mention of her lover’s name and the skin around her mouth tightened, eyes growing unfocused as she remembered comforting brown bleeding to green—always to green. The comb in her hands cracked and she blinked, shook herself free of the moment and turned to Willow. “Angel?”

Pale eyes watched her, steady and considering a moment before they glanced toward the paneled doors leading to the outside. “He came to see me a few days after your funeral and told me what happened.” Willow turned back to Buffy and clarified, “No one else knows. No else knows that I’m to blame.” 

Buffy’s eyes widened. “Willow, you’re not to blame.” 

“But I am. If I hadn’t performed the restoration—”

“If you hadn’t preformed it nothing! You didn’t know,” her head shifted to the side, gaze unfocused, “none of us knew. Not really.” 

“Buffy, I killed you.” 

Her head snapped back to center and she glared at Willow. “Shut up. I killed me.” 

Willow’s jaw trembled, eyes welling with tears as she shook her head. “If I could take it back I would. If I had known where you were I would’ve—”

“You would have what? Marched into hell and saved me?” 

That trembling jaw lifted, stiffened. “Maybe.” 

Buffy snorted. “I wouldn’t have wanted that and you know it.” 

“So? Since when’re you the boss of me?” 

“Since never.” Buffy paused, hesitated as she watched the color make a slow return to Willow’s cheeks and gnawed at the inside of her upper lip. She wanted to ask about Angel, she wanted to think of him as she had before, before Angelus, before Alastair’s bitch got inside her head and screwed the image of her lover six ways to Sunday, but she couldn’t. She couldn’t get past the pale, angry green of those eyes, the hatred that lurked there. 

Her back pulled up straight, mouth setting in a thin line as the hole in her stomach narrowed and she pushed past the phantom memories of Angelus, of the nearly tangible memories of hell and asked with knot of resolve forming in the very core of her, “How was Angel?”

“Not entirely well as you can imagine. He left for L.A. that night.” 

“L.A.?”

Willow nodded, her chin dipping low to her chest. “He’s started a detective agency. I can get you the phone—”

“Not right now.” She flinched at her own quick interruption and steered the conversation toward safer topics. “And Giles?” 

The redhead sighed, “He left. Back to England. He didn’t see much point in staying once you were gone and with a new Slayer—”

“New Slayer?” 

The skin around Willow’s mouth tightened as if she was mentally kicking herself before Buffy raised her brows in question and prompted her to continue with a quirk of her head. “Her name’s Faith and she seems nice-like but…”

Buffy leaned closer. “But what?” 

“She wasn’t you.” 

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

~*~

Overgrown hedges lined the sidewalk leading toward the entrance of Shady Hill Cemetery and Faith’s left hand eased out, letting her fingers sift through the rubber leaves before snagging one. Her head dipped and the loose waves of her hair fell forward to crowd her face as she began the slow task of peeling the bit of green apart as she continued on. The night grew lighter and she glanced up, caught sight of the entrance and tossed the thin strips she’d created to the sidewalk before slipping around and through the opened gate.

She wiped her hands across the front her jeans, smearing the leaf’s residue as she made her way over the gravel walkway and onto the grass where her steps would be muffled before she lifted her head and stiffened. Wide brown eyes took in the utter destruction laid out before her and glossed lips parted, mouth falling slightly open. Faith spun, the heels of her boots sinking into the soft sod as she ran a critical eye over the unmarked gate and hedges that surrounded the front of the cemetery before her shoulders rolled back and Faith eased the stake out from the waistline of her jeans. 

Knuckles paling around the hard wood as she dropped her arm, kept it unobtrusive and she made her way silently forward, past the broken headstones and shattered statues. The thin plum material that made up her shirt, while long sleeved, was little comfort from the sudden cold that raised the hairs on her arms and her hands clenched tighter as she resisted the urge to rub out the goosebumps. Instead Faith pushed herself farther, past a desecrated crypt that was only half standing in the moonlight and she sidestepped a pile of marble before easing her way around the dark roots of an upturned tree. 

Faith winced when she realized her breath was coming in shallow, rapid pants—too closely resembling fear—and she paused, lifted her chin and thrust her head to the side. Her next movement was a shudder as the vertebra in her neck gave a low crack, releasing the built up tension in her neck and shoulders with a surprisingly pleasant tingle. The hand clutching her stake loosened and Faith moved forward, through the broken remains of the cemetery until the ruin faded abruptly into normalcy. 

A thirty foot section stood untouched along the north side and brown eyes narrowed before she stepped over that invisible barrier and made her way toward the center. The stake made a repetitive tapping against her thigh, her stomach knotting with each step until Faith reached the center of the clearing and its untouched marker. Her gaze lowered, lashes dipping as she took in the sight of the dark hole leading into the earth before she turned her full attention on the headstone and its inscription. 

Her jaw tensed, eyes widening before she growled out, slow and precise, “Son of a bitch.”


	3. Are you there, God?

Disclaimer: The lyrics to ‘Thanks for the Memories’ belong to Fall Out Boy.

Chapter 3: Are you there, God?

Sweat slicked hands knotted in Elena’s lap as she stared up at the pulpit and the high windows above. She watched the moon spill more light across the carpeted floors of the church as the night grew longer and she colder. Elena shifted, the keys of her father’s sedan jingling in the pocket of her jacket as she settled herself more comfortably in the pew and continued to think herself into a frenzy as she wondered what in sam-hell she was doing in her community’s church after midnight on a school night.

Her nerve began to fail as her choir mate’s whispered words about the preacher watching her during their practice that morning before his sermon began to fade into the background of Elena’s thoughts. She shook her head and rose, hands slipping into her letterman jacket as she turned to leave the pew and just barely managed to stifle her cry of surprise. 

The preacher stood directly in front of her in the walkway, a perplexed expression on his face. “Can I help you, girl?” The southern accent had her blushing and Elena struggled to form words with her mouth as she watched his curve into a slightly wicked smile and he prompted, “Did my words move you tonight?” 

More color filled her cheeks before her head fell into an awkward nod and she offered hesitantly, “Yes. It was a wonderful sermon.” 

His head inclined in thanks before he took a step forward, into the narrow space between the pews and offered, “There’s truth in the words I use. Makes’em powerful and not just words I s’pose.” 

Elena’s chin lifted, tilting her head back so she could look up and meet his gaze. Her smile was hesitant, but quickly spread into earnest when he returned the gesture and lifted a hand to push a lock of blonde hair behind her shoulder. “They are,” she paused before hastily correcting, “powerful, I mean. Your words.” 

His smile stretched into knowing as he nodded. “And they brought you here. Called you. Know why?” His voice turned honey sweet and Elena could only nod as he continued, “Because you’re human—”

A thump interrupted his words and Elena bit her lip as he turned from her, toward the sound and it repeated itself, growing in intensity and repetition. Her brows sloped downward and she shifted her gaze from the preacher to the walkway behind him and noticed a red ball bounce its way down the carpet. She took a step back, confused by the sudden appearance of the toy and turned toward the entrance of the church.

Brown eyes widened at the sight of delicate child making her way toward them. Tiny hands fisted in the front of her dress, lifting it from the ground as she took careful steps down the slanted floor leading to the pulpit. She stopped a few feet from them, blue eyes locked on the preacher and her elfin features were drawn into a frown as she studied the black on black ensemble he wore. 

“Hello, Caleb.”

Elena frowned with the familiar address and took another step back from the strangeness that seemed to be unfolding before her as the preacher answered softly with, “I knew you’d come. The great sweepin’ tide of change.” 

A smile, sweet and pure, spread across the child’s face and brought with it a dimple in her left cheek. “Yes, I am,” she took a step forward, chin lifting as she met Caleb’s gaze, “Though I just go by Lilith.” 

“Lilith?” He said the name, rolled it around his mouth and the rapture Elena heard made her stomach knot and turn as fear replaced any attraction she’d felt. She spun, slipping down the narrow space toward the opposite side of the church. 

A hand caught in her hair, halting her steady stride and Elena cried out as she pulled back against a firm chest. “Please.” His free hand came forward and her eyes widened as she caught sight of the knife nestled in his palm. She didn’t understand the knife, where it’d come from. All Elena knew was her terror and she muffled her scream as the child drew closer to them. She locked eyes with her, suddenly terrified for Lilith and begged, “Run! Go find help! Go—” 

Her next plea was cut off abruptly as the hand in her hair jerked down, arching her neck painfully back and Elena’s next breath shuddered past clenched teeth. She watched helpless as the child made her way closer and until she was at the entrance to the pew. Close enough for Elena to see the pale slopes of her cheeks fill with color and her head cocked, ruler straight bangs falling to the side as she watched Elena struggle not to scream, to stay quiet. She tried one last time, “Please, go.” 

“She’s a whore,” those blue eyes locked with Elena’s as hers widened with the insult and Lilith continued, “She’s a filthy, wicked girl.” The child looked past Elena to the preacher and addressed him with a sweet smile, “and I know where there are more wicked children in need of your teachings, Caleb.”

The teenager whimpered as the knife twisted in the preacher’s hands and she watched as those blue eyes rolled back, replaced by pure white as the child gazed up at them. “Oh God,” escaped past chapped lips as tears leaked from the corners of Elena’s eyes, through her lashes to fall to her chin.

“You should never use the Lord’s name in vain, girl. It’s just not polite.” 

The knife arced downward, slicing through the air and into her stomach and Elena’s mouth opened, startled by the sudden pain as he twisted it, pushing deeper and across before yanking the blade free. He turned her in his arms and she blinked, confused by the serenity she saw in his gaze, in the curved set of his mouth. 

“Why?”

His eyes narrowed and the blade lifted again before it sunk into her chest, found her heart. The hilt and his fist struck her body, knocking Elena back and she fell into the pew, head lulling to the side, toward the child. She felt the blood spill down the front of her shirt, back arching as the knife was pulled free from her chest and she tried once last time to save the child as she gazed into those pale, white eyes and pleaded, “Run.” 

The child smiled and shook her head as Elena’s last breath escaped her and she sagged against the pew. Glossy, sightless eyes reflected the child’s hand becoming intertwined with the preacher’s as they left the quiet church together.

~*~

The wool-knit sat tight against her skin and Buffy tried to ignore the small detail that she was a bit bigger up top than Willow as she straightened the hem of the thermal shirt and made her way through the quiet home. She adjusted the drawstring on the pajama bottoms and her lips quirked as she glanced down at a print filled with Curious George, his banana and, oddly, a car. Her head shook as she entered the kitchen and tugged at the sleeves, pulling them up to sit snug around her forearms as she watched Willow putter about the kitchen.

Two grilled cheeses were already sitting neatly on ceramic plates as Willow stirred something that smelled both pungent and sweet. A monotone beeping filled the room and Willow lifted the pot to another burner, turned the stove off with a flick of her wrist before hitting a button on the microwave. The timer silenced and Buffy inclined her head before moving along the far wall and out of Willow’s way as the redhead turned and poured the pot’s contents into two bowls that matched the plates. 

“What’cha make?” 

A line appeared between her brows with the casual, almost childlike wording to her question, but before Buffy could retract it Willow answered with, “Grilled cheese and tomato soup,” her head shifted, glancing over her shoulder at Buffy as she added, “it’s my mother’s cure all.” 

The tension in her shoulders loosened with the levity she heard in Willow’s voice before Buffy paused, glanced around the nearly vacant home a moment before prompting, “Where is your mom?” 

“Seminar in Dallas.” 

“Huh.” Buffy shrugged and commented, “Cure alls are good.” 

“They are.” Willow set the two bowls beside the plates before turning, giving Buffy her full attention and her eyes slowly grew wider. “Wow.”

Buffy frowned, moving closer. “What? Wow, what?” 

Pale brows rose slow toward her widow’s peak. “My, that-uh-shirt really, kinda accents your breasts.” 

Her mouth opened in surprise and her arms rose to cross over said breasts before she managed to choke out, “Willow!”

“I’m just saying.” A slightly defensive shrug accompanied her quick assessment of, “I probably should have let you borrow something not so form fitting.”

“It’s okay,” the line between her brows faded, but Buffy was slow to lower her arms as she closed the small space between them and offered, “I mean, I’m borrowing. Not really complaining.” 

Willow’s frown became more prominent as she shook her head. “No, it’s my bad.” Her mouth curved upward as she added, “I forgot how well endowed you are.” 

“I’m not well endowed!”

“True,” Willow nodded, chin dipping down as she surmised, “I guess I’m just _not_ endowed.” 

Her brow arched and Buffy’s weight shifted to one side as she countered, “Willow, you’re endowed. You’re endowed plenty.”

She snorted, “No, I’m not. I’m shaped like a boy up top.” 

Buffy frowned. “You are not shaped like a boy.” 

“It’s okay.” Her mouth curved at the edges, forming a slight smirk. “Oz likes me just fine the way I am. He has no problem with the boy parts,” she paused, her brow pulling together, “That sounded better in my head.” 

“And only _your_ head.” 

“Hey! Free room and board here!” 

Buffy blinked, startled by the warmth filling her stomach, covering the hole and sealing it tight for the moment and her mischievous grin melted away as she simply stared at her best friend—and that’s what Willow was—her best friend. She had her back and without warning Buffy caught Willow’s arms, tugged her forward and into a tight embrace. Emotions welled up, burned the back of her throat as she struggled to hold the tears at bay, struggled to keep this moment of levity, of happiness alive within her. 

“I kinda love you,” the quiet words were muttered into Willow’s hair and her best friend’s arms tightened as she fully returned the hug.

“I love you too.” 

The reassurance of her words broke something inside and a hiccupped sound escaped Buffy as tears choked her and she pulled away, brushing her hands over her face, pushing the show of emotion back and tapered it down. Willow caught her busy hands, pulled them away from her face as her tears continued to make steady tracks to her chin. 

Willow’s lower lip trembled and she cupped Buffy’s face, lifted it toward her own and used her thumb to smear those tears. “You’re going to be okay. You are because I won’t have you any other way. You’ll get through this. _We’ll_ get through this.” 

Buffy stared into Willow’s look of resolution and nearly believed, wanted to believe, that sheer willpower would heal her, would make her the girl she use to be and take away the pain of hell, but it couldn’t and she wouldn’t let it. She wouldn’t allow Willow to shoulder any of her terror, sweat and tears. A shuddering breath drew her up straighter and she pulled back, stepped back and turned away, used her own hands to clean her face, wipe away the tears. 

She struggled past the sentiment and the urge to curl into the comfort Willow offered and instead focused on something simple. “The soup’s getting cold.” Buffy ignored the instantaneous frown that spilled across Willow’s features and instead grabbed a bowl, balanced it on a plate lip and lifted both. “Where to?” 

Pale eyes narrowed on her and Willow’s mouth thinned before she sighed and grabbed her own food and led them from the kitchen to the living room. Several text books were scattered across the coffee table and an opened notebook showed off Willow’s neat, but slightly sloping print as the pair made their way toward the small dinning table tucked in the corner. Buffy glanced around the neatly organized space and the near symmetry of everything didn’t disturb the fact that Willow’s home was a home. It felt lived in and welcoming, Buffy’s brows sloped as she pushed back thoughts of the vacant and now broken dwelling that had once been her home as she took the seat cattycorner to Willow’s. 

Her hands caught the underside of the high-backed chair as she urged it closer to the table and her food as Willow bowed her head for a moment, silent and respectful before she raised it. Breaking off a piece of her grilled cheese sandwich, she leaned forward and dipped it in the soup. Buffy’s mouth curved down at the corners before she shook off the odd-like moment and settled in to eat. 

There was a scraping of spoon against ceramic as Buffy stirred her soup before Willow broke the uneasy silence with, “What?”

She glanced up, watched the bit of tomato soaked corner make it into the redhead’s mouth before responding. “You prayed.” 

Willow’s free hand rose to cover said mouth as she asked around a mouthful of sandwich, “So?”

“You pray?” Her brows dropped and Buffy shook her head, annoyed with how that question sounded. “You don’t normally pray before meals,” her frown deepened, “do you?”

Understanding dawned and Willow swallowed, her hand dropping. “I’m at the head of the table.” The line between Buffy’s brows smoothed as she raised them and Willow shrugged. “I don’t think Ira Rosenberg would appreciate his only child sitting at the head of the table and not giving a blessing.” 

Her hand stilled and she let the spoon settle against the bowl’s rim as she studied her best friend. Buffy’s head inclined before she prompted, “So you believe in God? Angels?” 

Willow’s eyes widened, her mouth opening before it quickly snapped shut as if she’d decided to rethink her response. Buffy ducked her head, suddenly uncomfortable and lifted the spoon to her mouth, swallowed the basil filled sweetness. She welcomed its warmth as she struggled with the urge to confide in Willow, tell her the whole truth of her resurrection as Castiel had decreed it and await the scorn that would surely follow. 

“Yes,” the redhead nodded, “I do. I mean, I think I do. There’s gotta be something to-to balance everything, to balance,” she paused before adding, her voice soft, “hell.” 

“You’d think,” Buffy flinched, surprised that the scorn she faced came from herself rather than her friend. 

“You don’t?” 

Her head bowed and she pushed her spoon through the soup, creating ripples. “Why’d they, he, it let me stay down there for so long?” 

Willow frowned. “So long? Buffy you’ve only been gone five months.” 

She swallowed another spoonful before offering, “Time passes differently in hell.” 

“How different?” 

“Willow—”

“How different?” 

The sharpness of Willow’s question had Buffy flinching and pulling herself up straighter. “Longer.” 

“Longer?” 

Willow’s eyes widened, her hand reaching across the table and Buffy eased back from the touch, taking another sip from her spoon. Music sprang up behind them and Buffy’s brows drew together as she shifted, listened to a man’s slightly high pitched voice sing as Willow pushed herself back and scrambled toward the coffee table. 

_“I'm gonna make you bend and break. Say a prayer but let the good times roll. In case God doesn't show. Let the good—”_

A quick jab of Willow’s thumb shut the song off mid-verse and the cell chirped as she silenced it before making her way back to Buffy who used the distraction to her advantage. Steering the conversation away from hell and God, at least for the moment, as she prompted, “What’s that?” 

“My cell. It’ll go to voicemail soon-ish.” 

“Your cell?” Buffy’s brows rose, “since when are you a cell phone toting gal?” 

Willow frowned, apparently well aware of the conversation-driving, but she nodded slowly before answering with, “Since Professor Dormer thought they were a better idea than leaving a cryptic message with our parents for when we eventually made it home that night, or in Xander’s case at all.” 

“New Watcher?” off Willow’s nod Buffy continued, “huh. Are they new? Like young new? Cause cell phones are cutting edge compared to Giles’…” Buffy trailed off, considered before finishing, “well, Giles really.” 

“She’s not new.” Willow’s eyes widened. “She’s very proper and British and very _not_ Giles.” 

She frowned, stirring her soup some more. “Not Giles bad? Or not Giles good?” 

Willow’s head inclined. “Scooby vote is still out on that one.” 

“Oh.”

The redhead’s lower lip thrust out marginally as she tore off a section of sandwich and dipped it in her soup. “She doesn’t let us refer to her as part of the gang. I don’t think she even likes the gang.”

“Really?” Buffy paused, took a sip of soup before she realized, “Proper Watcher?” Willow’s pout intensified before she filled her mouth with more soup covered sandwich. Buffy dipped her head to cover her smile as she lifted another spoonful and offered, “I’m sure it will be fine. Giles was all proper and filled with scones at first too.” 

“I guess,” was mumbled around her mouth full. 

Buffy’s eyes narrowed, considering. “She won’t let you play in the fun books anymore will she?”

She shifted. “That’s not _entirely_ why.” 

“So you don’t like her?” Buffy couldn’t fight the ‘ah ha’ that crept into her voice and she watched as Willow’s head lifted, met her gaze.

“Sometimes and other times she’s not so bad. Like when the gang actually succeeds in helping.” 

“Always a plus.” 

Willow’s mouth twitched with her dry retort and she nodded. “The other day she did have me helping with the mixing of some hex bags.” 

“Hex bags?”

“They can be used for protection and other stuff.” Excitement crept into her voice as she shifted, dipping her chin. “I-I wasn’t allowed to make the ‘other’ but learning the protection stuff was kinda cool.” 

Buffy’s brows rose with Willow’s attempt at covering up. “Only kinda?”

“Okay,” her eyes rolled, “way.” She leaned forward. “There’s so much Professor Dormer can teach me and she’s willing, to teach I mean, cause Giles was always so secretive and unsure about me and my abilities, but they’re there. Big honkin’ abilities and Professor Dormer thinks I should learn to harness them properly or I could – I could,” she frowned at the wistful smile Buffy was giving her and finished, “I could be boring you.”

She blinked, coming back from the moment lost in Willow’s semi-ramble to stare at her best friend, horrified. “No! Wills, God no! I just missed this. Missed you.” 

Buffy watched the muscles in Willow’s throat tense as they work at swallowing nothing before she offered, “Do-do you want to talk about it?”

She shook her head, her words tumbling over one another as she answered quickly and with a ring of finality, “A world of no.” 

Willow flinched back from the harshness of her reply and picked at the crust of her sandwich. “Oh, alright.”

Buffy’s eyes closed, head falling forward as she struggled to find a happy medium, a moment when her emotions and responses weren’t as awkward and upsetting as a seesaw. Her jaw set in a determined line as she lifted her chin and focused on the mundane. “Tell me about Oz.”

Willow’s focus returned as she stared at her blankly. “Oz?”

Her head cocked. “You know, the guy you have a ton of pictures of upstairs.”

The slopes of her cheeks flushed with color as Willow promptly corrected, “I don’t have a ton.”

“He outnumbers Xander.” Buffy’s brows arched. 

“He does?” Surprise colored her voice as she seemed to realize that Buffy was indeed correct and another, softer blush darkened her throat. “He does.”


	4. Not Evil

Chapter 4: Not Evil

Faith’s stride lengthened as the two story house, she currently found herself shacked up in with the decent Professor Diana Dormer, came into view and she darted past the mailbox and over the lawn in record time. Her arms lifted as she leapt the three steps leading onto the porch and her stride fumbled, skidded to a stop as she suddenly found the need to dig into the pockets of her jeans for the house key.

Chilled fingers snagged the ring and tugged it free as she twisted the bit of metal in her hand and slid it into a well maintained lock. The door swung inward and she crossed the threshold, catching the door with the edge of her boot before nudging it closed with a bang. 

“Professor!” the shout echoed in the hallway as Faith’s stride picked up speed and she moved swiftly past the door-less entries leading into the living and dining rooms. The hall spilled her out into the family room that Dormer had converted into a training room and brown eyes narrowed as she rounded the stairs and moved past them, towards the small hall leading to the den and Dormer’s base of operations. 

Soft piano chimes where overshadowed by Mick Jagger’s steady rumble as Faith drew closer and her hand loosened its death gripe on the keys as she filled the doorway and tried once more to obtain her Watcher’s attention. “Hey, Professor!” 

Her Watcher turned, head lifting from a book as blue eyes narrowed behind wire-framed glasses and a strong jaw lifted toward Faith in greeting. “What is it? What’s wrong?” 

Some of the tightness in her chest eased with the sound of the clipped British accent and the intense focus Dormer placed on her. Faith stepped forward, further into the room and ignored the trapped feeling the iron-bar covered windows created as she made her way past the speakers spilling out more of the Rolling Stones’ greatest hits. “We have a problem.” 

A grey brow arched as Dormer’s head cocked. “Do we?” 

“Yeah,” Faith’s chin dipped into a nod, “I was about to patrol Shady Hill—”

“Your _first_ stop of the evening?” 

The interruption forced Faith’s shoulders to bounce as she shrugged. “Yeah, anyway,” she ignored Dormer’s frown as she disregarded the pointed question and moved on, “Buffy Summers’ grave seems to have an opening.” 

Dormer’s mouthed opened, startled, before she snapped it shut and made her way toward her desk to deposit her book on the leather blotter. Thin fingers rose from that desk to cup a squared-chin, press against her lips as she turned back to Faith and asked, “Are you certain?” 

“Pretty damn positive and the rest of the cemetery looked as if someone had taken a bull-doze to it.” 

“A bull-doze?” 

“You know?” Faith made a vague flattening gesture with her hands. “Makes the world flat.”

Her brow quirked. “I know what a bulldozer is. I was attempting to prompt you for a more detailed description of the cemetery.” 

“Ah.” Faith suppressed the urge to smirk at the haughty tone and instead focused on the important, “Everything in Shady Hill was destroyed ‘cept for the few graves circling Summers’. Crushed and ruined kinda destroyed.” Her head cocked as she asked, “Descriptive enough for ya?” 

“Yes,” was the dry retort as Dormer stepped closer to the desk and retrieved her cell phone.

“I already called the gang to check on ‘em.” Her Watcher’s head inclined and Faith crossed her arms, hips cocking as she rattled off the cliff notes. “Can’t get a hold of Willow, but Xander and Cordelia are on their way here,” her tone shifted toward not giving a damn as she clarified, “I interrupted date night.” 

Dormer’s hand tensed as she prompted, “And the werewolf?” 

Faith’s mouth dipped, but she ignored the off-putting label for Oz and clarified. “Babysitting little wolf.” 

“His cousin?” 

The disdain in her Watcher’s tone stiffened Faith’s spine as she straightened and nodded. “Yeah.” 

“Alright. Then I shall attempt to contact Willow and perhaps you should await the arrival of the others.” 

Faith’s brows pulled together at the easy dismissal, but she stood her ground. “Think Willow is good?” 

“I don’t know. I certainly hope so.” 

The electronic chirp of the doorbell stopped any further discussion and Faith sighed, shoulders dropping as she uncrossed her arms and spun on her boot heel. Mick was cut off mid-verse before she heard Dormer’s cell dial and Faith attempted to shake off the nagging sense of dread twisting in her gut. Her chin dipped and she glanced down at her house keys as she made her way under the vaulted ceiling of her training room that opened up to the second floor. Shoving the keys into a pocket of her jeans she entered the hall leading to the front door and jogged her way toward it. 

Bickering could be heard from the other side and Faith rolled her eyes as she grasped the knob and yanked the door open, spilling light over the couple standing on her doorstep. The cheerleader’s chin lifted, brow quirking as they took in the Slayer’s attire and Faith _just_ managed to suppress the urge to fidget and the urge to deck—and Dormer said she lacked self-control. 

Instead of greeting Cordelia with her fist she settled for, “Hey.” 

Xander moved forward first, taking his girlfriend’s hand as he stepped slightly ahead of her and between the two. “Faith, good to see you. Glad that you called. What’s up?” 

“Problem.” 

“Problems can be good.” He gave an abrupt, put-upon laugh. “Problems can distract from this awkward moment we’re having.” 

“Whatever,” Cordelia snorted and gave his back a shove to get him moving and Xander stumbled over the entry and into the hall. Faith stepped back and to the side, giving them room to pass before she closed the door. 

Xander hesitated, turning to state, “Willow didn’t answer her phone. Did you get a hold of her to tell her you’d sent out the bat-signal?” 

The tightness in her stomach returned as Faith caught the deadbolt and latched it. “No, I’d hoped you did.” 

“I’m sure it’s no big thing.” 

Faith’s frown deepened with the slight catch to Xander’s quick reply and Cordelia turned, her high ponytail showing off her profile as she asked, “So why the cryptic call? What couldn’t wait till after dinner and a movie?” 

“Buffy’s grave.” 

Xander’s brows tugged together. “What about it?” 

“She’s not in it.” 

Cordelia’s eyes widened. “She’s not in it? Is this a joke?” 

“One can only hope.” Faith’s gaze shifted to Xander and focused on the look of concentration and worry on his face. “You were tight. You, Willow and her.” 

He swallowed, adam’s apple working. “Yeah.” 

“Heard from her?” 

Xander’s startled, “What?” was overridden by Cordelia’s annoyed, “Excuse me?” 

“Look, you guys were like three peas in a pod according to Willow and it’s not above the norm for her to look you up if she’s been turned.” 

“She hasn’t been turned!” Xander’s angry retorted had all of them flinching and he sighed, deflating as he clarified. “Wouldn’t she have risen by now? It’s been months. Don’t most vamp’ings take only a few days?” 

Faith’s chin dipped as she nodded. “Three.” 

“So she’s not a vampire.” 

Cordelia’s happy retort was ignored as Faith shrugged. “She might not be a vamp, but she’s not human anymore. Humans don’t just suddenly stop being dead.” 

“You don’t know that.” 

Faith’s eyes narrowed with Xander’s denial. “You know something I don’t? ‘Cause I go by what I know and what I know is that little Miss Sunshine has been in the ground. Things that were in the ground and rise up outta it tend to be nasty.” 

“Faith’s right.” The trio shifted, turned toward Dormer as she made her way down the hall toward them. “I cannot reach Willow and I’d prefer to err on the side of caution and make a quick stop at her home before we investigate what remains of Shady Hill Cemetery.” 

Cordelia’s chin lifted as she offered, “I’ll drive us.” 

“No, that’s quite alright. I’ll drive.” Dormer’s quick retort managed to bring a small moment of levity as Faith and Xander shared a knowing smile and Cordelia bristled, but soon reality set back in and the three teenagers followed her in silence.

~*~

Alton Brown’s rather in depth explanation of the differences between cranberry sauces and their merits had faded to white noise. Buffy shifted, propping her feet up on the coffee table’s edge and continued to ignore Willow’s steady gaze as she attempted to focus on the program and not on the expanse of night showing through the window behind it. A sigh tightened the loaned shirt she wore as Buffy caught the remote and pressed the power button. Good Eats disappeared with a cheerful beeping from the television and she turned, caught Willow’s eye and quirked a brow.

Her best friend’s mouth thinned as she continued to stare at her, silent a moment longer before she asked, “Why did you question me about the blessing? About God?” 

The skin around Buffy’s mouth tightened as she fought not to frown, Willow really did have just too many thoughts sometimes. “It was nothing. I was curious.” 

Those pale eyes narrowed. “About God?” 

A line appeared between Buffy’s brows as she remembered Willow was to over thinking as dog was to bone. She crossed her arms, tapping the remote against her side as Buffy shifted her gaze to the side, avoiding Willow’s. “It was…” 

She trailed off and Willow leaned closer, mouth dipping further downward. “Nothing?” the bite to the word shifted Buffy’s focus back to her and Willow sighed. “You don’t have to tell me anything, but could you _not_ lie to me?” 

“Willow—”

“No,” she shook her head and Buffy watched her turn away, face the television, “I get it. It’s hard and I’m pushing.” Willow’s voice tightened, “I just want,” she trailed off and shrugged. “I don’t know what I want, but it’s not this. Not this awful _thing_ between us.” 

Buffy opened her mouth to respond, but Willow was already pushing onward, “I know that the thing between us is hell and what you’ve been through. Everything I can’t understand, but I want to.” She turned, gave Buffy the full effect of her wide-eyed gaze and the tightness in her voice slipped into a tremble. “I want you to tell me. I want you to share it, all of it, with me. I can take it Buffy. I can help you, but only if you’ll let me.” 

She stared at her a moment, studied the tears gathering at the edge of Willow’s lashes and Buffy swallowed, jaw tensing as she offered, “He said his name was Castiel.” 

Willow blinked, the tears pushed back as she sent her a baffled look. “What?”

“The one who saved me. Who dragged me out of hell.” Buffy shook her head, attempted to focus her thoughts as understanding dawned across Willow’s features. “He said his name was Castiel and that-that he was an Angel of the Lord.” Bitterness crept into her tone as she added, “That he gripped me tight and raised me from perdition.” 

“You don’t think,” Willow paused, frowned before continuing, “It was an angel.” 

“I don’t know.” 

“What if it was? Good things happen, Buffy.” 

She shook her head, turned away from Willow. “Then why’d they wait?” Her voice broke, lowered to a whisper, “Why’d I have to stay there so long?” 

“Buffy,” Willow’s voice dipped as her hand reached out, settled it over the slope of her shoulder. 

The offered comfort lifted her chin and Buffy blinked back tears, swallowed the waver in her voice, pushed it back. “I don’t know what to think or what to believe.” 

“We’ll figure it out.” 

Buffy shifted forward, Willow’s hand dropping away from her shoulder as her eyes narrowed on the window behind the television and the sudden shadow darkening the shrubbery outside it. Her arms uncrossed, remote falling to the couch as she rose and the window shattered. Willow cried out behind her and Buffy stepped forward, closer to the coffee table and slightly in front of Willow as the figured uncurled from their crouched position near the floor. 

Narrowed brown eyes, heavily accented with black eyeliner, stayed solely on Buffy as the girl rose and asked, “Private party or can anyone join?” 

“Faith?” Willow’s breathless question had Buffy’s balled fists lowering. 

Faith was the new Slayer, Kendra’s replacement, and suddenly the brunette was moving, hand catching the edge of the coffee table and lifting. It flipped up onto two legs before toppling back with a crash as Faith’s hands snagged the front of her shirt, jerked Buffy away from the couch, from Willow and spun her toward the broken window. A fist connected with her jaw, teeth grinding into her lip and blood filled her mouth as she stumbled back. 

The next blow was blocked, her forearm catching the swing and Buffy shoved her off and back, glared at the brunette even as she attempted to reason with her, “Wait, listen.” 

“No and no.” 

A kick was aimed for her head and Buffy stumbled back a step, wincing as she waded into the broken glass littering the floor. The thick soles of Faith’s boots crunched over it as she advanced and Buffy twisted away from her next swing, ignored the glass lacerating her feet, and caught the fist aimed at her. She ducked and pulled, dragging the hand with and used Faith’s momentum against her, tossing her onto the couch as Willow scrambled off of it. 

“Faith, stop!” 

The redhead was ignored as Faith’s mouth twisted into a sneer. “That all you got, blondie?” 

Faith was on her feet and coming at her and the next rain of blows connected as Buffy was lost inside the scent of blood and sulfur. _“Hey blondie, miss me?”_ His words, his voice, mocking her, degrading her and she felt her body collide face first with a wall and she spat out the taste of her own blood. She ducked the next swing and the wall vibrated with the blow as she spun and Faith’s eyes paled to green, her mouth twisting and the thin, determined line contorted into a knowing smirk. 

Buffy lunged upward, a flattened palm connecting with Faith’s narrow chin and her head jerked back as Buffy rose, caught a hold of Faith’s nylon-covered biceps and spun her. Slammed her bodily into the wall before releasing her arms to grasp the back of her neck and brought their foreheads together. Once, twice before Faith’s arm came up, caught Buffy across the throat and she gagged, stumbling back. 

_“Slow, you need to slow down and savor it. Savor her terror.”_ Alastair’s withered voice echoed through the room and Buffy shook her head, lifted it in time to have Faith’s fist collided with her cheek and her vision blurred as tears welled. She took a step back, spilling more of her blood as she moved toward the window and the broken glass. Faith advanced, her fists clenched and Buffy’s forearms lifted, blocking her face from the next two swings. 

She spun on her heel, twisting to give Faith the side of her body as she caught the fist aimed for her, fingers wrapping tight around a pale wrist as she brought her free hand up. Struck the bicep in front of her, pushing it outward, away from Faith’s body with enough force to bring forth a strangled cry and wet pop as the joint dislocated. 

“Buffy! Buffy, stop!” 

A nagging voice chanted her name and she ignored it, spun into Faith and brought the back of her arm down on the injury she’d just inflicted and the brunette fell to her knees gasping in pain. Buffy’s hand slipped from Faith’s wrist to cup her thumb and she twisted, jerking the arm and torquing the wounded shoulder as she brought the hand behind Faith, bent her upper body forward as she controlled her movements with pain—as they’d controlled her movements, controlled her. 

“BUFFY!”

The anguished cry lifted Buffy’s chin, took her attention off her enemy for a moment and she looked into Willow’s tear stained face. _Willow._ The hand holding Faith in place tightened and the brunette cried out. Buffy released her, stumbled away until she felt the wall at her back and took in a shuddering breath. Not hell. She slid down, her hair snagging against the plaster as she stared at Faith, watched the other Slayer bow her head against the pain as her arm hung useless at her side. Not hell. 

“Oh my God, Buffy.” 

She looked up with Xander’s horrified words and watched as an older woman, older then Giles by a decade or two, eased her way through the broken window and came to kneel at Faith’s side. Blue eyes trained on Buffy as she caught the other Slayer’s shoulder and helped her to rise, drew her further from Buffy as Willow moved to take a place at her side. 

“Willow, get away from her!” Xander’s statement was muffled as he scrambled over the broken glass, wincing as his pant leg caught on the serrated edge of the window. 

“It’s Buffy, Xander.” She looked up, gaze turned to Willow as the scent of smoke and sulfur faded from her perception and her injuries made themselves known. The side of her face felt tight and she winced, drawing her fingers across the welt rising where Faith’s solid fist had connected with her cheek. 

There was a low crackling pop and Faith’s grunt drew Buffy’s focus from Willow and she met the other Slayer’s glare with a muted look. The fight left Buffy and her shoulders sagged, head lowering to drop her chin towards her chest. 

“Step aside, Willow.” 

The thin redhead drew herself up straighter against the older woman’s order and shook her head. “No.”

“She attacked Faith!” 

Buffy shook her head, but it was Willow that snapped back, “Faith attacked her!” She pushed herself to her feet as Willow took several steps forward, blocking the room’s occupants from advancing on Buffy and giving her an easy exit out the window. Green eyes narrowed on that window, considering as Willow continued, “She’s held a cross. She came to me in sunlight. She’s not evil. She’s my friend.” 

“She’s not your friend.” Faith’s eyes narrowed as she gave a tentative roll of her injured shoulder and advanced on Willow. “Your _friend_ died months ago.” 

Before Willow could retort Buffy gave a broken laugh and took a hesitant step forward. The room stilled as she moved and she caught sight of Cordelia through the window and found her gaze to be the only neutral one on her at the moment. With a shake of her head she settled her stare on the woman now standing slightly behind Faith and stated softly, “I did.” 

“You did what?” 

Her brow quirked with Faith’s snappish question and replied, “Died.” 

Willow turned toward her and Buffy ignored her sympathy, her empathy and moved so that they stood side by side. She shook off the nagging voice emphasizing the fact that Willow was taller then her now and instead focused on the considering look the older woman, she assumed was Faith’s Watcher, was currently treating her to. The look was disturbing in its intensity, but leaps ahead of the narrow-eyed glare she had been receiving so Buffy kept her mouth shut and simply endured it. 

“You say she held a cross and was out in sunlight with no ill effects?” Willow nodded and the older woman stepped out from Faith’s shadow and the brunette turned, gave her a startled look that was pointedly ignored. Those cool blue eyes watched Buffy and she remained silent a moment before she prompted, “And if I requested a demonstration of these attributes?” 

“Happy to oblige.” Buffy inclined her head. “The cross is easy enough, but we might have to wait a few hours for the sun.” 

“Perhaps a cross and holy water then?” 

Buffy’s chin dipped as she nodded her agreement. “I’ll even drink it.” 

“Very well then. Perform these tasks and then perhaps we can figure out exactly what is going on here.” 

“That would be nifty.” Willow snorted out and Buffy turned to shoot her a mutinous glare as Xander continued to stare at her from his place across the room. 

Cordelia stepped closer to the broken window and fixed a pointed look on Willow. “Mind opening the front door? Some of us _still_ have manners.” Hazel eyes traveled from Willow to the blonde beside her and Cordelia’s head cocked. “Hey, Buffy.” 

Her mouth quirked as she fought not to smile. “Hey, Cordy.” 

“You look like hell.” 

Willow made an affronted noise and Buffy shrugged before offering, “I feel like it.” 

“Oh, it definitely shows.”


	5. The ‘T’ should be capitalized.

Chapter 5: The ‘T’ should be capitalized.

Black paint swirled, creating a delicate arch across the concrete as Buffy turned her wrist, nose wrinkling as the metallic scent grew heavier, and traced out another symbol on the garage wall. Professor Dormer was kneeling behind her adding the intricate words of Latin to the Grand Pentacle taking up most of the floor in the hopes that its presence would compel Castiel to bow and obey—unless of course he really was an angel and all their hard work was for not.

Her mouth twisted, wrist falling away from the wall as she resisted the urge to rest her head against the newly formed heptagram and instead took a step back, around Dormer’s busy hands. The Watcher’s head lifted, eyes narrowing on Buffy before she turned her gaze on the Slayer’s handy work and her eyes widened as she pushed herself into a kneeling position. “The Fifth Pentacle of Mars?” 

Buffy turned, looked at the circle encased scorpion and shrugged. “Is that what it’s called?” 

“Yes, it is.” Dormer rose onto her feet, made her way closer and Buffy watched her stay mindful of keeping out of arms reach even as she studied the paint on the wall. She inclined her head toward Buffy before asking, “How do you know this symbol?” 

“Hell.” Dormer stiffened, turned bodily towards her as Buffy kept her gaze focused on the wall. “They used different ones to torment each other. I paid attention to which ones caused the most harm.” 

“Handy.” Buffy’s shoulders dropped with Faith’s casual assessment and she turned away from the symbol to watch the other Slayer stroll down the few steps leading from the house into the garage. The brunette’s shoulders were pulled back; chin high as she glanced around the newly painted room. “Smells rank though. Might want to crack a window.” 

Dormer moved back to the Grand Pentacle and countered with ease, “And that would undo half the night’s work.” 

Faith’s eyes narrowed. “Your headache.” 

The Watcher gave only a slight huff in reply before rattling her can and going back to work. Buffy watched her a moment, hands falling to her side as she tried to ignore the fact that they, she and Dormer, were debasing what was left of her home, the only place they knew for certain Castiel had made his presence known, and under Faith’s careful supervision. The other Slayer had kept her mouth mostly shut except for the odd snide comment that managed to keep Buffy on edge. 

Not that Buffy was expecting them to be instant buds, not after they’d spent the better part of their first meeting pummeling each other and in retrospect she appreciated the comfort, even if awkward, of Willow’s presence and missed it. Though she got, really she did, why Dormer had insisted the Scooby Gang sit this one out. Summoning whatever had dragged her out of hell wasn’t going to be a neat or easy process and keeping Willow, Xander and Cordelia far from danger seemed like a solid plan. Now if only she could get Faith to stop with the staring contests she’d be right as rain—or not. 

“I think we’re ready.” 

With a frown and shake of her head Buffy pulled herself free of internal musings and Faith’s narrow-eyed glare and focused on Dormer as she stood and made her way toward the small card table she’d set up along the wall farthest from the garage door. Buffy took a step to follow her and found Faith suddenly and effectively blocking her path. “Where’re you goin’?”

Suppressing the urge to roll her eyes Buffy sighed, “Was going to throw this,” she shook her can of spray paint, “in the bag with the others but the corner will do,” and tossed the can over Faith’s shoulder. Said shoulders tightened in response and Faith took a step forward, arms crossing and Buffy gave up on the niceties. “I’m done apologizing to you. Back off.”

Faith’s head cocked, glossed mouth curving into an insolent smile. “Gonna make me?” 

Buffy’s brows rose as she mimicked Faith’s stance and speech and replied with, “Gonna try.” 

“Children, am I going to have to separate you?” 

The annoyance and authority in Dormer’s tone left little room for argument and Faith’s hands clenched, balling into fists before she stepped back and to the side. Buffy tensed before taking a hesitant step forward and paused, kept Faith in her peripheral vision before finishing the space between her and the table in a few uneasy strides. The hairs along the back of her neck rose as she felt Faith’s gaze, her anger and mistrust focused solely on her as she took the spot beside Dormer. 

A few familiar and several not so familiar words of Latin spilled past the Watcher’s lips as she lit the three candles set on the edge of the table closest to the wall before lifting a wicked looking knife and bringing down into a pile of grave dirt, from Buffy’s grave, and through it. The blade sank into the card table beneath the small mound and the handle thrummed from the force behind her strike as Dormer’s hand slid from it. 

She inhaled slow and precise and with her exhale she extinguished all the candles and Buffy’s head cocked as she prompted, “Did ya make a wish?” There was startled snort from behind them and Buffy turned, caught Faith’s smirk and the flash of humor before she swallowed it down and her face slipped back into angry lines. “I’m not your enemy.” 

Faith blinked at her, brows dropping low, but it was Dormer that answered Buffy’s statement with, “We’ll find out soon enough, won’t we?”

“I thought we’d already figured that part out,” Buffy frowned, “hence your help with the possible unfriendlies.” 

Faith moved forward, the back of her jeans scraping over the concrete floor as she moved to stand closer to Buffy. “I thought that too.” 

Buffy’s spun to stare at the side of her head. “Then why the ‘tude, solidarity girl?” 

The brunette turned, met Buffy’s glare with one of her own. “Hard to be nice to the person beating on you.” 

“You beat on me first!” 

“You just crawled outta your grave!” 

Buffy sighed, head cocking as she accepted Faith’s answer with a shrug. “Point taken.” Turning back to Dormer, and ignoring her amused look, Buffy inquired, “How long _exactly_ do we have to wait?” 

A low buzzing answered Buffy’s question and drew her attention away from Dormer and Faith and toward the ceiling above them. Her chest tightened as the buzzing rose in volume and pitch, whistling through the room and the motor to the garage door opener groaned and coughed, showering the trio with sparks and separating them. The high-tone sharpened into chatter, the same noises that had shattered the windows of her home earlier in the day, and Buffy’s hands rose, covering her ears as the chatter grew in intensity. 

“What the hell is that?” 

Buffy’s chin rose and she met Faith’s wide-eyed stare as the brunette lifted her own hands to cover her ears as if she heard the voices crying out too. The light above them flickered and popped, casting them into darkness as the chatter became a wail causing Buffy and Faith to cry out, fall to their knees. The side-door leading from the garage to the outside groaned, bending inward before the hinges gave under the pressure and the door imploded, crashing into the card table, toppling both to the ground. 

Dormer moved forward, the ceremonial knife clutched in her hand, to take point before the girls. The chatter rose around them and Buffy attempted to rise under the assault, pressed her back against the painted wall for added support as she inched closer to the under-guarded opening. Silence suddenly reined and her knees locked, she stumbled, sagging in relief as a shadow descended across the small threshold and she caught movement out of the corner of her eye as Faith pulled herself up from the ground.

The shadow became a person, a rather attractive person, whose intent gaze traveled over Dormer and Faith, dismissing them with ease. He stepped forward, into Buffy’s home and into the Devil’s Trap. Dormer lunged, blade flashing in the sliver of moonlight cutting through the darkness of the garage. He sidestepped her advancement, caught her wrist and directed the blade harmlessly away from them. Buffy stiffened when he used his adjacent hand to press two fingers to Dormer’s brow line and she staggered, falling away and to the ground. 

“Professor!” Faith was already moving forward as the man stepped out of the Devil’s Trap with apparent ease and caught the fist Faith aimed for his face. Her voice dipped, growling out the threat, “I can’t believe how much I’m gonna kill you.” 

His head inclined, thin brows rising over blue eyes as he compressed the hand holding her fist and Faith grunted, attempted to free herself. Her mouth thinned as she aimed a kick for his side and he released her fist to grasp her thigh and spun, easily tossing her into the wall beside them. Buffy’s eyes narrowed and she knelt, fingers wrapping around the ceremonial knife and she scrapped the blade over the concrete drawing his attention away from Faith’s slumped form. 

He turned, blue eyes settling on the petite blonde and his chin dipped in acknowledgement of her, startling Buffy, before he dodged the kick Faith aimed for his knees and stumbled back a step. Buffy rose, flipping the serrated edge of the knife outward before swiping it across his back and he staggered, coat, cloth and skin splitting under the blade. Faith caught the back of his head, brought it down into her knee as Buffy advanced and he twisted, catching her knee on the next up-bring and spilled Faith on her ass. 

He spun, palms flat and lifted to either side of his body. “Stop this.” 

“To hell with that.” 

He turned with Faith’s angry words and Buffy felt the world slow as he ducked her next few swings and invaded her personal space, two fingers finding their way to her forehead. Brown eyes widened, looked past him to meet with Buffy’s and the blonde flinched at the apology she saw there before Faith’s eyes closed, body slumping against the wall behind her and sliding down. 

He stared down at Faith a moment, his mouth dipping at the corners. “Interesting.” His head lifted, blue eyes locking on Buffy. “Why have you not left this city?” 

Her grip on the knife tightened and she ignored his question in favor of asking one of her own. “What did you do to them?”

“They are alive.”

She advanced, blade rising. “Who are you?” 

He turned away from her, his voice confused as he stated, “You already know this.” 

“Castiel.” His chin dipped, the same nod as before and Buffy shook her head. “ _What_ are you?” 

“We have had this discussion,” Castiel’s brows lowered, pulling together after his statement.

“Right.” Buffy snorted, moving around him and closer to Faith’s unmoving form. “You’re an Angel of the Lord. Pardon me if that seems a bit thundering loony-like.” 

His head inclined and Buffy had a moment to think, wounded puppy, before he was distracting her with the talking again. “This is your problem, Buffy. You have no faith.” 

“Oh, I’ve got plenty of Faith. Handfuls of it and you should know, _you_ knocked her out,” she paused, frowning and taking her focus of Castiel long enough to send a worried glance to the fallen Slayer, “or so you say.” 

“Check on your friends—”

“They’re not my friends.” She interrupted and sighed, “Not really, not yet.” 

He blinked and gave her the same blank look Giles did when he hadn’t a clue what she was talking about or why she was even talking. Her shoulders stiffened and pulled back under _that_ look and she returned it with a glare and his brows rose. “Check on your _acquaintances_. No harm will befall you.” 

Her eyes widened with his stressing of the word ‘acquaintances’ and her lips quirked as she knelt beside Faith and asked, “Are angels supposed to do sarcasm?” 

“We do many things.” 

His monotone reply had Buffy looking up even as her fingers settled against Faith’s throat, searching for a pulse. He had turned toward the symbols on the walls, studying them intently and Buffy felt her cheeks warm as she again noticed the prettiness of his profile and her mind dipped into the innuendo of his previous statement. Her shoulders sagged when she found Faith’s sluggish pulse and she stood, moving toward Dormer and treated her to the same search with the same results. 

“You now know what I am. That I speak truth.” 

The statement brought Buffy to her feet and she spun on her borrowed boot heel to find Castiel treating her to the same thorough study he’d given the walls. More color filled her cheeks as she tugged at the thermal top she still wore, without a bra, and crossed her arms over her breasts, the knife tucked tight to her body. 

“Maybe.” The lukewarm, one-worded reply was enough of an agreement to bring him closer to Buffy, his gaze locking with hers and she swallowed the urge to look away from the intensity boring into her and instead asked, “So you’re the one that saved me?” 

“I am.” 

“Thanks,” her mouth turned down at the corners, “I guess.”

His eyes narrowed and he took a step forward. “You don’t think you deserved to be saved.” 

Buffy’s chin lifted as she prompted, “Deserved? Maybe, but I am just curious as to what took you so damn long.”

Castiel’s mouth thinned as he sighed and stated, “Yours was a sacrifice that could not be undone.” 

“And yet here I am.” Buffy’s eyes widened as a thought formed and she moved forward, closer to Castiel. “No one took my place, right? You didn’t trade me for another.” 

“I did not.” 

“Then how?” 

Castiel’s head bowed a moment, breaking eye contact. “A situation presented itself.”

“A situation?” Buffy took the last step forward, invading his personal bubble and bringing his head up to meet her gaze as she snapped, “Did you take lessons in cryptic or are you just striving to be really, really annoying?” 

“You were saved because God commanded it.” 

A curl of anger had leaked into his voice and Buffy swallowed, “Oh,” and took a step back, he was far too intense at the moment. “So you saved me. Now what?” 

His features smoothed and his gaze dipped toward considering again as he looked over and through her. “We have work for you.” 

“Of course you do.” She winced, turning away from his all knowing, all annoying stare. “Sorry, I know I sound ungrateful. I just…” her voice trailed off when she turned to see the spot beside her was vacant of Castiel. 

She spun, taking in Dormer and Faith’s still prone forms and saw that the garage was now empty of angels and sighed. “You really do know how to make an entrance and exit memorable, don’t you?”

~*~

Sweat-slicked palms caught the edge of the countertop and Faith bounced, propping herself up on the island in the center of Dormer’s kitchen and caught the water bottle Buffy tossed her. She opened it with a grin as Buffy moved to lean against the island beside her and downed half the bottle before wiping her mouth dry with the back of her free hand. “You’ve got some quality rage going there, B.”

The blonde’s head, currently, at level with Faith’s waist tipped back so that Buffy could meet her fellow Slayer’s gaze and a hand lifted to push at the few strands of damp hair that had escaped her ponytail back behind her ears. Narrowed shoulders lifted into a shrug, already use to the nickname she’d been tagged with on day two of her stay with Faith and her Watcher. “Yay me?” 

“I’m just sayin’ that it kinda gives you an edge.” The brunette made room for Buffy on the island and slapped the place beside her before taking another swig from the water bottle. Buffy glanced at the marble tile a moment before giving in and a hop that settled her beside Faith, their arms brushing as she lifted her own bottle to drink from it. Faith paused, waited a beat before hesitantly adding, “You’re always a bit on edge.” 

The water bottle dropped, settled in Buffy’s lap as green eyes narrowed and she kept herself facing forward as her voice dipped in warning. “Is that a fact?” 

“Look,” Faith sighed, frowned and turned away her study of Buffy’s profile to stare at the red numbers on the stove, “I get hell was a bitch, but you should be dealing and you’re not—”

“Dealing?” Buffy’s head whipped toward Faith, voice snapping over hers as she asked, “It’s been what? Three days since I found myself back with the living? How do you recommend I _deal_ with it?” 

“Uncorking it once and awhile? Outside the training room. ” Faith shoved herself off the island and spun, placing herself directly in front of the blonde. “You got friends, friends that want nothing more then for you to unload on them, let’em help you and you keep’em out. Keep yourself locked down so damn tight.” 

A pointed chin thrust forward as Buffy turned her gaze away from Faith’s and her hands tensed, crushing the plastic bottle as her voice whispered, paper-thin, “I can’t.”

“Why the hell not?” 

“I don’t want them to know what it was like. Don’t you get that?” Faith tensed as Buffy turned back to her, lashes damp and eyes glossy. “I can’t tell them. I can’t _unload_ on them. I won’t burden them.” 

“B, don’t you get that it’s not a burden?” Faith’s head tilted, arms crossing as she shifted her weight to one leg. “Not to them.” 

Her nostrils flared, mouth thinning into a thin angry line. “I know that! Don’t you think I know that?” 

Faith shook her head. “I don’t think you do. Not really.” Buffy’s lips rolled inward, eyes dipping toward her lap and the ruined water bottle that rested there. Faith frowned, stepping forward and voice quieting as she offered, “Then talk to me.” 

Buffy jerked, head lifting to meet Faith’s gaze with her startled one. “We barely know each other.”

“Exactly.” Faith’s mouth curved upward with the raising of Buffy’s brows at her one-worded response and attempted to clarify, “You already unload some of it on me and as much as I love sporting gnarly bruises I’d prefer you got the emotional shit outta the way too.” 

Buffy ignored Faith’s snort, of more then likely amusement, as she mouthed the words ‘emotional shit’ back to her and her sister Slayer gave one last shot. “I suck at the touchy feely,” Faith paused, shrugged the tension out of her shoulders and refocused, “but that rage in you has gotta go somewhere.” 

Buffy’s lashes dipped, gaze moving back to her lap as she quietly uttered, “It does.” A tired smile tugged at her mouth and she released the tension in her hands, watched her nail beds go from white to pink before she finally looked up and explained, “But this is something I’ve gotta work through on my own. _I’ve_ got to deal with, without outside supervision.” 

Faith’s shoulders dropped in disappointment with Buffy’s ending statement and she turned, ended the discussion on her own terms as she tossed casually over her shoulder, “I’m gonna hit the shower.” 

She made it to the carpet of the hallway before Buffy called her name and had her passing, back to the room as Buffy offered sincerely, if a bit meek, “Thanks.” 

Faith’s shoulders tightened before she shrugged. “It’s no big thing.” 

“It’s big to me.” The quiet certainty in her voice had Faith shifting, turning to face Buffy as she pushed herself off the counter and made her way closer to the entry Faith currently filled. “If it’s any consolation of all my friends,” she frowned, suddenly uncertain of her standing with Faith and corrected herself with, “of all the people I know, I think you’d be the one who could handle the-the knowing.” 

“Buffy?” The two Slayers separated and Faith stepped back and away from the moment forming between them and further into the hall as Dormer moved down the hall, toward them from the training room. “Buffy, yes, there you are.” 

Her mouth thinned as she watched Faith retreat further and toss another smirk toward them as she stated, “Shower is me.” 

Dormer inclined her head toward her charge before focusing on Buffy. “I’ve had a few responses to my inquiries about your Castiel and it seems—”

“What about Giles? Have you contacted him yet?” 

Her interruption had Dormer frowning as she explained, “I think you need to understand that if the Council knew of your existence it’s entirely possible they’d send a wet works team to deal with the situation.” 

She rolled her lips inward, ignored the slight tingle and light-headed feeling Dormer’s words invoked as she clarified, “They’d kill me.” 

“More then likely, yes.” Dormer took a step forward, draped a hand over Buffy’s shoulder and she tensed under the casual contact and resisted the urge to step back and away. Her hands clenched as she became motionless and tried to focus on Dormer’s words rather then her proximity. “I have attempted to contact Rupert, but for the moment he has failed to return my summons. You might need to accept the fact that Rupert, and perhaps even Sunnydale, aren’t in your future.” 

A line appeared between Buffy’s brows, her mouth curving downward as she prompted, “What do you know that I don’t?” 

“Not much, unfortunately, just that several instances in the last few years have signaled that a great change is coming.” 

Buffy’s chin lifted. “Meaning?” 

“Meaning, I’m not certain the battle to come will happen here in Sunnydale. The signs have been showing up all over the United States and a few in Europe.” 

Castiel’s words came back to her, _“Why have you not left this city?”_ and Buffy suppressed them, ignored them and instead focused on Dormer and her possible font of information. “Signs? Signs of what?”

Dormer’s hand slipped from Buffy’s shoulder to fall at her side, fingers curling against the tweed pencil-skirt she wore. “Signs of the apocalypse.” 

Buffy blinked, frowned. “Okay. We’ve faced apocalypses before. We can do it again.” 

“Buffy, I don’t think you understand. The signs that are being recorded aren’t depicting an apocalypse, but _the_ apocalypse as in the biblical sense.” 

Her mouth opened, closed before she offered weakly, “So I’m guessing the ‘t’ in ‘the’ should be capitalized.” She watched Dormer’s mouth thin and lifted a hand to stall her protests a moment longer and asked, “Do we know when this is going to happen?” 

The Watcher’s arms lifted, crossing under her breasts as she shook her head and Buffy noticed that her short grey hair was mussed, as if she’d been running her fingers through it over and over—also not a good sign. “The main consensus is that we don’t want this to happen. We need to stop it before it starts.”

“And how do we do that?” 

“I don’t know.” Dormer’s chin dipped toward her chest and she took a deep breath, chest expanding before her head lifted and she stated, “You need to take a shower. Cordelia will be here shortly to take you shopping for necessities.” 

Buffy pulled back, stared at the other woman a moment before stating, “That was a quick change in subject.” 

Blue eyes narrowed. “I have no other answers to give or information to share and you required clothing of your own.” 

Her brows lowered and she glanced down at the blue on blue t-shirt she wore and tugged at the hem, stretching the number sixty-two downward. Faith’s clothing was a bit big for her, but it was leaps and bounds ahead of wearing Willow’s things, not that she’d ever tell Willow that. With a sigh she conceded. “I do, but we’ll talk more later.” 

“Of course.” 

The certainty in Dormer’s voice didn’t ring true and Buffy resisted the urge to frown at the other woman and instead nodded before making her way through the training room and towards the stairs leading to the second floor and the second bathroom. Cleanliness was next to Godliness—not that she gave a damn.


	6. Knowledge of Weird

Chapter 6: Knowledge of Weird

Brown leather encased Buffy’s cocked ankle as she thrust her leg out, in front of her seated form and looked over the boot currently covering her from rounded toe to mid-calf. Her lips twisted, bottom lip tucking between her teeth before she stood and took a few hesitant steps in the three inch heels. Her hips slipped into a familiar roll as she walked down one of the narrow halls created by the racks upon racks of shoes before she spun, easily, on the heel and made her way back toward her bags.

With a smile she unzipped the sides of each boot, which were a definite necessity, and placed them in the box, arranging the tissue paper around them before replacing the lid. A familiar rumbling voice had her straightening, eyes widening as a tall teenager entered the store wearing a Sunnydale High letterman jacket. Buffy ducked her head, flipping the hoodie of Faith’s sweater up to cover her hair and face and shifted the bag filled with several new pairs of jeans onto the seat beside her. 

Her next breath lodged in her throat as she waited, listening to the guy, apparently named Percy, according to the register clerk’s greeting, make small talk before heading back towards the wall of sneakers. Buffy exhaled slow and steady before tugging on Willow’s Doc Martins and snatching up her bags and soon to be purchases. She twisted her body to keep an eye on the far wall while paying and ignored the clerk’s curious stare as she handed over Dormer’s credit card. 

Buffy’s smile of thanks was forced as she accepted the large bag to add to her collection and made her way out of the Sketchers store without incident. She made it three clothing and one jewelry store down before a voice called her name and she tensed, tightened her grip on the bags incase she needed to dip out quick before turning around. Green eyes widened and then narrowed when she saw Cordelia making her way leisurely towards her holding an oversized Macy’s bag. 

Resisting the urge to remind Cordelia that shouting her name when she was supposed to be dead probably wasn’t the wisest, or sanest, thing to do and instead she waited till they were side by side before stating, “I thought off the rack gave you hives.” 

Hazel eyes blinked, a line appearing between perfectly arched brows as Cordelia paused in her easy stride and shot Buffy a dirty look. “It does.” 

The taller girl was already off and moving toward the escalator, leaving Buffy to stare at the vacant space beside her before shaking her head and following. Her arms tensed, lifting to ensure the bags didn’t drag as she stepped on the black stairs moving down and frowned at the high ponytail holding Cordelia’s dark hair back. She took a few steps down, putting herself closer to the brunette before prompting, “So what’s the what?” 

“What?” Cordelia turned, glanced back and up at Buffy who looked pointedly at the bag and she gave a graceful shrug. “Oh, this? It’s for you.” 

White sneakers hopped the ledge swallowing the flattened stairs and lead Cordelia away from the escalator. Buffy winced and swore, nearly missing her own moment to step and stumbled forward, past Cordelia who snorted, “Graceful, super chick,” and slipped past her, heading for the food court with the declaration, “I want mochas.” 

A sigh dropped Buffy’s shoulders and she paused a moment, adjusting her grip on the bags before following the powder blue dress through the throng of people. Her stride slowed when she saw Cordelia slip into the line at the Starbucks kiosk and she rolled her shoulders, releasing some of the tension after the near brush with someone who could recognize her and would more then likely scream about it. 

She glared at Cordelia’s ponytail a moment longer before stepping forward and into line behind her. “Hey.” 

She turned, glanced down at her and Buffy resisted the urge to adjust her hair and instead met Cordelia’s critical stare with blank expression. “What’s with the popped hood? It’s less incognito and more look at freak-little-me.” 

Her eyes closed and Buffy counted to three before opening them and fixing Cordelia with a glare, but a hand released the bag holding her new boots and shoved the hoodie back and off. “Almost ran into someone who might’ve known me.” 

A brow arched. “Please, anyone who would have recognized _you_ is already in the know about your return to the land of the living.” 

“Thanks for that,” her tone was dry and Cordelia’s brows tugged together, but before she could comment she was next and Buffy was glancing around the food court. She followed Cordelia to the pickup area and was quiet a moment longer before prompting, “So what’s in the bag?” 

Cordelia turned, gave the counter her back before lifting the khaki-colored bag by the hanger at the top and snagged the knot at the bottom. Her manicured nails worked it over a moment before untying and lifting the bag up to reveal a fitted thigh-length leather coat. The coat Buffy had been eying, but had been leaps and bounds out of the budget Dormer had set for her. 

“Cordy, I don’t know what to say…” she trailed off and looked up at the other girl who shrugged away her startled look. 

“How ‘bout thank you?” Her brows arched high as she adjusted the bag back over the coat and turned to accept two frozen mochas before turning back to Buffy. “’Sides this was one of the few things you looked at that wasn’t _completely_ heinous.” 

“Thank you.” 

Cordelia’s eyes narrowed with the sarcasm laced gratitude, but instead of commenting she simply turned toward the tables and began to cut her way through the crowd. Buffy watched her go and ducked her head to cover the smirk tugging at the corners of her mouth. The smile turned grateful when she noticed Cordelia took a table nearby and placed the mochas in front of two seats across from each other before draping the coat over one of the free chairs. Buffy sank down into a seat with a mocha and let the bags fall to rest around the table’s center leg. 

Cordelia settled herself across from Buffy and fixed her with a curious look. “Did you get those scarves I showed you?” Off her nodded she smiled, “Good, purple looks decent on you and the teal,” she paused, “well, just wear the teal with the coat and it’ll look okay.” 

Buffy shook her head and lifted the mocha, taking a quick sip before setting it back down and stating, “Thank you, for the coat _and_ taking me out today.” 

“No big.” 

Her head cocked. “Does everyone say that now?” 

“What?” Cordelia sent her a confused look before shaking her head. “Whatever. So are we Bronze’ing it tonight?” 

Buffy blinked, frowned. “Well, since I shouldn’t go anywhere I could be noticed I’m gonna go with no.” 

“Bummer,” she paused, glanced from side to side before leaning forward and whispering, “Are you sure someone would notice you?” 

“If they did I’d be sure to tell them about the time you changed in a mop-closet.” 

Cordelia jerked back, eyes wide. “You wouldn’t.” 

“Try me.” Hazel eyes narrowed and Cordelia sat back, snagging her mocha and sipping it as she studied Buffy and tried to decipher fact from freak. 

Buffy rolled her eyes and brought her own mocha up to take a sip and glanced around the food court, tracking the movements of the teenagers and families surrounding them. Her teeth clenched around her straw as a shiver traced its way down her spine and her next breath expelled outward as a cloud of vapor. Buffy lowered her drink and looked across the table at Cordelia who shivered and sat forward. “What’s going on?” 

“Hey, Summers.” 

Her hand clenched around the mocha and Buffy’s next breath shuddered outward, the cold intensifying as she turned her gaze to the side and it traveled up a pair of black slacks, over a monochrome stripped shirt and up further to traced a strong jaw before settling on a pair of familiar brown eyes set beneath low lying brows. Buffy swallowed painfully past the lump in her throat and whispered, “Ford.” 

She pushed slowly to her feet and those angry brown eyes followed her movements as his mouth twisted into a smirk. “You do remember me. Good. I admit I was a little nervous.” His image shuddered, snapped in and out of focus. “It wouldn’t be as much fun if you didn’t remember.” 

“Ford, I’m sorry.” Buffy motioned Cordelia back and the brunette rose, slipping away from the table with one last concerned look sent toward her. 

“I know you are.” Ford’s image flashed, disappeared and Buffy flinched, drawing herself up straighter. “You should be.” His quietly whispered words had her spinning even as his cold fingers wrapped around the base of her neck and brought her downward, into the table and it toppled, spilling her forward and onto her side.

“Buffy!”

She scrambled to her feet, placing herself in front of Cordelia who stumbled back a step and glanced around as Ford lifted the table and tossed it away from them with a flick of his wrist. “You saved everyone that night, but me, Buffy. Everyone!” 

His angry accusation had her backpedaling and Buffy ignored the startled looks and the cries of the crowd surrounding them. Instead she shouted to Cordelia, “Salt shaker!”

“What?” 

Buffy turned her head, took her focus off Ford for a moment to growl, “Salt shaker, now!” 

“Okay, okay.” 

She ignored Cordelia’s mutterings about people yelling at her when she wasn’t deaf and instead focused on Ford as he dissipated. “Dammit,” her muttered swear was accompanied by an explosion of misted breath and she ducked, barely dodging his next swing and spun away from him. “Ford, listen to me. This isn’t you.” 

Ford’s head cocked, brows rising. “Is that right?” He was suddenly in front of Buffy, invading her space, cold fingers wrapping around her biceps as he dragged her forward and whispered, “You left me there to die.” 

She caught movement out of the corner of her eye, Cordelia making her way back to them and her jaw thrust forward, nostrils flaring as she ground out, “You were already dieing.” 

Brown eyes widened, anger darkening into uncompromising rage and his forehead snapped down into Buffy’s and she dropped back. Wrenching herself free of his grip and caught the glass, thankfully, shaker Cordelia tossed her. She met Ford’s glare with tired eyes and whispered, “I really am sorry,” before lobbing the shaker at the tile floor directly beneath him. It shattered, spraying the air and Ford, who cried out and dissolved into black smoke. 

Buffy pushed herself back onto her feet and began to gather her bags, ignoring the shocked crowd. She caught Cordelia’s confused frown as she asked, “Why is it whenever I go somewhere with you, it always ends in violence and terror?”

“Just lucky, I guess.” 

With a snort of either humor or annoyance Cordelia bent and helped her finish collecting her purchases before they both moved with a hurried stride out of the food court. Buffy paused only long enough to grab another salt shaker and smiled when Cordelia followed her example. It wasn’t until they were in the parking lot and Buffy was scanning it for restless spirits did Cordelia speak. 

“What’s up with your new and improved knowledge of weird?” She hesitated, searching her purse for her keys as she jogged toward her car. “Wait, if it involves your vacation in hell I don’t want to know.” They reached the car and she slid behind the wheel as Buffy tossed her bags into the trunk and made her way to the passenger side without incident and got in. 

Cordelia glanced at before putting the car in drive. “Well?” 

Buffy tugged on her seatbelt as Cordelia cut the turn out of the parking lot a little too quickly before she replied, “Knowledge of weird obtained in hell.” 

“Never mind then.” Buffy glanced at her out of the corner of her eye, smirking before she was forced to palm slap the dashboard as Cordelia finally noticed a stop sign.

~*~

A sudden jolt locked the seatbelt, snapped Cordelia back and held her immobile a moment as she glared at the back of Dormer’s sedan and wondered why she _always_ parked so close. Her eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, a quick check over the smoothness of her ponytail before she shut off the running engine and waited for the click before pulling the key free of the ignition. Ignoring the fine trembling of her hand was easier when she used it to grab her purse up from the floorboards and ignored the slow opening of Buffy’s eyes—as if a non-driver had room to talk.

Putting shoulder to door and muttering, “C’mon!” she stepped out into the warm afternoon sunlight spilling through the trees that lined Dormer’s property. She straightened and stepped back, slamming the door with a sharp bang that seemed to wake Buffy from her stupor as she began to open the passenger door. 

Cordelia frowned as a cold breeze slipped down the back of her dress and spine, spilling goosebumps over the exposed skin on the back of her neck. A frosty mist expelled past her lips and she stiffened, turned slow and precise away from her car and her eyes widened behind oversized sunglasses as a familiar, but über-dead, person took up the space beside her. 

“Hey, Cordelia.” 

She swallowed, wondered where the hell Slayer-girl was, and kept her hands and purse low as she unzipped it. Her voice catching as she tried to cover the sound. “Jesse. You-you look good,” she frowned, added hastily, “For a dead-guy.” 

“Cordelia, still the same.” He shook his head, image shadowing for a moment, becoming transparent before he snapped back into focus just inches away from her. She flinched back as his hand lashed out, palm slapping the car’s hood and her brows dipped when she saw the freaky symbol on the inside of his wrist. He leaned closer, the cold intensifying as he stated, “Still don’t know when to shut your mouth.” 

Trembling fingers, whether from the cold or fear Cordelia didn’t entirely know, wrapped around the salt shaker buried in her purse and she shrugged, kept her voice nonchalant as she struggled to remove the metal topper. “Oh please! As if your opinion—”

“Shut up!” He flickered, vanished from sight and she lunged away from the car and spun, saw the same guy from the food court tossing Buffy around—fantastic. She was going to be an utter lack of help. 

“Cordelia.” 

A light wind ruffled her ponytail, pushed at it as gently as someone’s breath would and she shuddered, teeth chattering as the temperature dropped lower and she dropped her purse. Held the topless salt shaker in one hand and spun, eyes narrowing on the complete nothingness behind her. “Great. Just great.” 

There was a crash and she turned, watched Buffy slide down the side of her car and winced. “Watch the paint!” She’d just gotten it fixed after the last run in her car had with the nasties. With a muttered curse she started forward, toward Buffy and her, would have been cute if he hadn’t been dead, attacker and suddenly Jesse blocked her path. 

Her head cocked and she used her free hand to flip her sunglasses to the top of her head before offering him a livid snarl of, “Move.” 

“You still think you’re in control? You still think you have the power, don’t you?” 

A brow rose, left arm tensing as she flicked her hand and the glass shaker. Salt arched outward, raining down on him and his head threw back, a cry of rage cut short as he dissolved into black smoke. Cordelia’s mouth turned up at the corners. “I never lost it. Loser.” 

The front door opened behind her and she turned, watched Faith barrel her way out of the house and over the porch toward her. She took a step to the side, directly in Faith’s path to Buffy and her eyes widened, boot heels digging into the soft grass as she struggled not to ploy her over. The brunette Slayer opened her mouth to snap at her and Cordelia thrust the shaker and what was left of the salt at her. “Here, works like a charm.” 

Dark brows sloped downward, brown eyes flicking from the shaker to her and over her shoulder to Buffy before she grunted a ‘thanks’ and snatched the glass container from Cordelia’s hand. She didn’t bother to watch Faith save Buffy’s ass, she knew it was inevitable, and instead grabbed her purse on her jog toward the porch steps and up them, past Dormer who stood waving her inside. 

She stepped over the threshold and was met by Xander, his mouth set in a grim line and his funny-shaped brows pulled low. Brown eyes rose to meet her gaze and she swallowed the waspish comment about the friends he kept that she’d been about to make and instead moved forward, past him and the pained look thinning his mouth. She glanced around the interior of Dormer and Faith’s well-spaced home, looking for more unfriendly Caspers, as she made her way down the hall leading past the living and dining rooms and toward the training room. 

They always had their meetings—or whatever—in the training room. It was the largest room of the house and more then once had acted as base of operations and Cordelia paused when she stumbled across Willow sitting cross-legged on the matted floor, her face tear-stained. Not in any particular mood to deal with that train wreck she ignored the redhead who bowed her head to wipe at her tears and took a spot against the wall. She settled herself, leaning her shoulders back and crossed her arms as she waited for Faith and Buffy to finish up. 

The knot in her stomach loosened when the front door slammed followed by Xander’s entrance into the room. He glanced at Cordelia and her chin lifted motioning him towards Willow. He caught the movement and its meaning, moving to the redhead’s side and laid a hand on his best friend’s hunched shoulders. 

Dormer swept into and through the high-ceilinged room, heading toward the den and she stated simply, but with conviction. “Follow.” Cordelia’s brows rose with the order, but she pushed herself from the wall and followed the Watcher into the den as Buffy and Faith took up the rear. The two Slayers stayed near the door as Dormer moved toward her desk and turned, faced the room with a frown. 

Buffy probed at the bit of blood seeping from the corner of her mouth and winced, shaking her head. “Wouldn’t happen to have any stockpiles of salt handy would you?” 

Dormer blinked, frowned and Cordelia glanced back at Buffy as the Watcher responded, “Of course. In the garage.” 

Faith nodded and took a step forward, further into the room. “B and I’ll grab the salt while you all sit tight.” 

Cordelia frowned and tossed her purse on one of the chairs in front of the desk dominating the room before asking, “How long will we be sitting tight?” 

“Till I’ve figured out what exactly is going on.” 

Before Cordelia could comment on Dormer’s answer, Buffy called from behind her, “Iron. We need iron.” 

“Upstairs there’s a broadsword made of it.” Cordelia turned, arched a brow at Xander’s readily supplied answer and he shrugged. “I think.”

Dormer nodded. “There is and I have a fireset upstairs as well. I doubt the brush or coal turner will be of much help, but the rack and pokers should do.” 

Buffy smiled. “Yeah, they will,” she turned to Faith, “Ready?” 

“Wait!” The room tensed, turned toward Willow who stiffened, wiping away more of her tears and Cordelia sighed, suppressed the urge to roll her eyes, and moved to take one of the seats beside Dormer. “The satchels we made,” she looked to the Watcher, eyes wide and pleading, “they could use those for protection, couldn’t they?” 

The Watcher smiled faintly and shook her head. “Not against unrest spirits. Those were created to ward off demonic influence.” 

Willow’s shoulders sagged as she stated stubbornly, “We can’t let them go out there unarmed.” 

“Hate to burst everyone’s bubble, but this room isn’t protected till we get that salt.” They turned to Buffy, who raised her brows in response and continued to show off her new knowledge of weird that so didn’t sit right with Cordelia. “The iron bars are a big plus, huge even, but there’s nothing stopping them from coming through the door.” 

The loud clap drew the room’s focus back to Faith who rubbed her hands and stated simply, “So let’s motor’vate.”


	7. Unnatural

Chapter 7: Unnatural

“Mark of the Witness.” 

Red hair shifted, slipping back and around Willow’s shoulders as her head lifted, pale eyes rising from her notes to watch Dormer rise from across the desk they shared and head toward the bookshelves set in the corner of the room. The Watcher rose on tip toe as Buffy unfolded herself from the chair beside Willow’s and moved to take the Watcher’s spot. She reached out, pale fingers tracing over Cordelia’s sketch, the curved-inked lines taking the shape of the symbol the cheerleader had seen on Jesse. 

Her hand lifted, tugging the volume Dormer had been engrossed in for the last hour closer and beneath her considering gaze. An hour filled with Jesse and Ford’s taunts from across the threshold created by the salt, she and Faith had lain, and not for the first time that evening Buffy found herself wishing there was an actual door between the den and the small hallway leading toward the training room. Door-less entryways did make for a more open feeling to one’s home, but they made ignoring restless spirits a near impossibility. 

“Mark of the what?” 

“Witness.” Buffy lifted the book and flipped the page back before answering Faith’s question more in depth. “They’re witnesses to the unnatural.” 

Willow shook her head and leaned forward, elbows propping on the desk to anchor herself as she snuck a peak at the book in Buffy’s hands. “Unnatural?”

“Those who’ve seen beyond the natural order of things.” Dormer returned to the desk and laid several more volumes, thick and leather bound, across its surface. “These spirits were forced to rise and seem vengeful. Filled with anger towards those they deemed failed them.”

“Super.” 

Buffy arched a brow at Xander’s annoyed response as he pushed himself up from his spot beside Cordelia on the floor and made his way to the desk. Faith kept her post near the arched entry, iron-cast poker held in a loose grip at her side and Cordelia sighed, dragged herself up, with only a few mutterings, to join the group. 

Buffy suppressed the urge to smirk and instead focused on Dormer and asked, “So someone raised them? Anyway of telling who?” 

Blue eyes lifted from one of the volumes to meet Buffy’s gaze, brows pulling low. “Not that I’m aware of, but whoever did it doesn’t have the world’s best interest at heart.”

“Ya think?” 

Dormer lifted her head and offered Xander a tired smile before turning the book she’d found toward Buffy. “It’s called ‘The Rising of the Witnesses’ and it figures into an ancient prophecy—” 

“Of course it does.” Cordelia turned a glare on Buffy. “You come back and bad things happen. They follow you around like some sick, demented puppy.” 

Green eyes narrowed and Buffy stepped back from the group, the book she held lifting to fold across her chest as she snapped back, “I didn’t do this.” 

“No, you didn’t, but you can’t stand there and tell me it has _nothing_ to do with you.” Cordelia shifted, moving to stand directly in front of Buffy. Her chin dipping, hazel eyes staring down the perfect line of her nose as she continued, “More people die when you’re around then when you’re not.” 

“Cordelia!” Willow stood, putting herself bodily between Buffy and Cordelia, forcing them to step back as the redhead turned on the taller of the pair. “You’re out of line.” 

“Am I?” Toned arms crossed, angry eyes shifting past the wannabe-witch to Buffy. 

Her shoulders tightened before they sagged and Buffy shook her head. “You’re not.” 

“Actually she is.” The three teenagers turned two pairs of irritated, and one tired, gazes on Dormer who merely arched a brow under their scrutiny. “This prophecy has very little, if anything, to do with Buffy or any other Slayer for that matter. ‘The Rising of the Witnesses’ is a mile marker in the book of Revelation.” The room quieted with her announcement and Dormer glanced past the children surrounding her to Faith, smiled at her surprised look before she refocused. “A mile marker leading—”

Soft clapping interrupted her explanation and Buffy turned, caught sight of a shadow snapping into focus behind Faith and just outside the salt-line. The brunette Slayer spun, poker rising as Buffy took in the sight of a familiar grey mustache that sat beneath a flattened nose and grew down into thick muttonchops that faded into the thinning hair covering a rather large, and had at times been shiny, head. 

The color drained from Buffy’s cheeks, paling them as the book she held slid from her hands to clatter against the wood floors. She took a hesitant step closer to the door and calm grey-blue eyes settled on her, narrowed on her, but it was Dormer’s quiet voice that brought Buffy back into the here and now as she whispered, horrified, “Merrick.” 

“Diana,” his head dipped, square chin nearly brushing his chest covered by a familiar grey suit and trench coat. “You always were a bit slow in the research department. I suppose that’s to be expected when one receives their charge so late in life.”

Buffy swallowed, throat tight, and ignored Dormer’s irritated ‘humph’ as she placed herself beside Faith and directly before her first Watcher. His focus shifted to her and a shudder wracked her slim frame, goosebumps rising along the bare skin of her arms as a cold settled around her, misted her breath. “And _my_ charge,” his voice dipped, turned cruel, “If I’d known you’d turn into such a whoring waste I would never have killed myself in your stead.” 

The cold tightened, his words slicing through Buffy and she stumbled back from the fury in them and into Faith. The brunette steadied Buffy with one hand while reaching behind her to the chair holding the bag of salt with the other as Buffy shook her head. “Merrick, I didn’t—”

“Think? You never did.” His image flickered, the cold dipping toward freezing, making it a near impossibility to breathe. “You laid with a vampire! You soiled—”

“Hey!” Buffy stiffened, turned toward Faith as she tossed a handful of salt at Merrick and snarled, “Shut the fuck up!” 

A line of white arched upward, spreading outward to coat Merrick’s form and his head snapped back, lips curling into a sneer before he evaporated and Buffy winced, closing her eyes. White teeth tugged at her bottom lip before she steeled herself. Back pulled up ramrod straight and her eyes opened slow as she turned around to meet the, more then likely, accusing glares head on and blinked when she saw Faith simply arching a brow at her. 

“I really don’t like that guy.” Buffy looked past Faith, back toward the corner of the room currently filled with Scoobies and smiled, if weakly, at Xander who grinned in return. “I’m guessing Watcher, pre-Sunnydale.” 

“You wouldn’t be wrong.” Buffy’s quiet agreement seemed to calm the room and Willow offered her a reassuring grin as Cordelia ignored her, not that Buffy entirely blamed her, and took a seat in one of the chairs that surrounded Dormer’s desk as Buffy prompted, “So this rise of the witness thing. How do we stop it?” 

“I’d say rocket launcher. But, gosh, we did that last year.” 

Buffy arched a brow with Xander’s readily supplied quip and moved from her place beside Faith and toward the group. She bent to retrieve the book she’d lost when Merrick made his untimely and unwanted appearance as Dormer called the room’s attention to her. “There is a spell that should send the witness back to rest. I believe I have all the necessary items to perform it here in the house.” 

“In this room?”

Xander’s hopeful question was met with a shake of Dormer’s head. “Unfortunately, no. I require my hex-bag which is in the upstairs study and the opium, hemlock and wormwood are located in the kitchen.” 

Xander’s eyebrows rose. “Opium?” 

The group ignored his sudden interest as Willow moved, taking a spot directly beside Buffy as she stated, “I can get the hemlock and such. I know which—”

“No way.” Faith took a few steps deeper into the room, her body still turned toward the entrance as she shook her head. “There’s no way you’re going out there.” 

Buffy laid a hand on her forearm, turned Willow to face her and smiled at her frown-pout. “You really think we’re gonna let you go fisticuffs with nasty, hell-bent on revenge, spirits?”

“Professor Dormer’s herb supply is big. I know which ones are opium, hemlock and wormwood.” Willow’s brows pulled together. “I can help, Buffy.” 

“I don’t wanna know how you know which one is opium.” Buffy watched Willow give a half-smile before she continued with, “And you can. By staying safe. Faith or I will just grab all of it.” 

Xander shook his head, placed himself beside the pair. “What can I do?” 

“Watch the door. Keep the nasties from getting in.” The trio turned to Faith who locked gazes with Buffy. “Let’s do this.” 

“Now wait—”

“For what?” Brown eyes left Buffy’s to look beyond her to Dormer and Faith’s voice deepened as she asked, “How many other people are fighting off these spirits? How many other people are dying while we play let’s be safe?”

Buffy turned, looked to Dormer whose mouth thinned, a pained look entering her gaze before she nodded. “Very well, but remain vigilant.” 

“Always.” Faith spun on her boot heel, strolled to the entry and snatched up the iron sword they’d retrieved earlier. She lifted her arm, wrists bringing the curved tip of the blade forward, cutting it across the open space in front of her before she tossed Buffy the poker. 

The blonde stepped forward, caught the leather-wrapped handle with ease and raised her brows. “Nice distribution of weapons there, Faith.” 

The brunette grinned. “My house, my toys.” 

“Faith, the dried herbs are in the pantry near the back, in the largest tin. Just grab the container. We’ll sort through it once you’re safe.” Faith nodded, winked at Buffy before stepping over the salt-line and disappearing down the hall and into the training room. “Buffy, my hex-bag is in the upstairs study. On the bookshelf along the wall across from the railing there’s a circular bronze vase on the top shelf. The bag is Velcro-ed to the back of it.” 

Buffy nodded and offered Dormer a tired smile before she headed to the high-arched entrance with Xander a step behind. She paused at the salt-line before turning to him and motioning toward the bag of salt propped on the chair beside the door. “Keep them safe and keep inside that line.” 

“Will do.” He dipped his head, caught her gaze before she stepped free of the room. “Hey, be safe.” 

“As houses.” 

Buffy stepped over the safety of the salt-line, from wood to carpet and made her way down the small hall, past a smaller bathroom and into the training room. The poker swept upward in a smooth arc to rest a few inches above her right shoulder as her left hand reached out, fingers tapping against the stair railing as she followed it around to its opening. Her eyes narrowed, pupils spiraling outward as she swept her gaze over the darkened hallway to her left and the entry to the kitchen. She could hear the shuffle of steps as Faith searched for the tin of herbs and she turned, left hand lifting to cup the banister before she ascended the stairs.

The carpet muffled her steps as she upped them and hesitated at the first level where the stairs turned, folding together to form an almost spiral. Her chin lifted, eyes searching the darkened floor above her before she continued, the poker bobbing beside her head as she made quick work of the remaining stairs and paused at the top of the landing. To her right stood the study, separated from a nasty tumble to the first floor by a thin wooden railing, and Buffy’s mouth dipped, lips thinning as she realized she’d be completely open to attack. 

Her shoulders dropped—Faith’s house, Faith’s Watcher. 

With a sigh she moved forward, Willow’s boots noiseless across the carpet as she eased her way along the railing and into the study. The desk lamp sputtered, turning on and the tiny bulb filled the alcove with muted light. Buffy turned toward it, the poker lowering to waist level as she watched the light flicker and a child’s voice surrounded her, “Power Girl? Power Girl, where are you?” 

Pale lips parted, her next breath misting on the air as the fine hairs along her neck rose and the voice grew louder, straining to be heard. “Help me! You’re supposed to help me, Power Girl.” Buffy’s jaw trembled, tears welling in her eyes as she spun toward the bookshelf, gaze locking on the bronze statue before she started toward. 

Muffled steps filled the quiet left behind the childlike voice and Buffy ignored them, ignored everything, but the statue and hex-bag attached to it. She reached for it, straining to touch the top shelf and had to brace one foot on the bottom shelf, give herself a slight boost and her fingertips brushed the chilled metal.

“HELP ME!” 

The shout was echoed by the lamp lifting off the desk and Buffy winced, fingers catching the edge of the statue before she stumbled back from the bookshelf and ducked as the lamp struck. The bronze cylinder fell to the carpet beside her as she turned, caught sight of the lamp’s metal frame lodged in the drywall behind her. The poker lifted as Buffy knelt, gaze sweeping the alcove before she looked down, eyes widening when she saw the metal of the statue was covered in a thin layer of frost. 

Trembling fingers reached out, careful to avoid the iced metal and yanked the bag off the back of the statue. It freed with a tearing sound and she stood, head lifting and her body tensed, muscles tightening as small form flickered into existence in front of her. Buffy’s stomach knotted as she brown eyes stared up at her, pleading, tired. 

“Hi, Buffy.” She took a step forward, her feet, covered in pink and yellow striped socks, peaked out from beneath the large hospital gown dwarfing the child’s frame. Her cousin’s head cocked, ruler-straight bangs sliding to the side with the movement as she smiled up at her. “Are we going to play a game now?” 

Buffy swallowed, throat working as she clutched the bag close to her chest and hefted the poker. “No, not right now, Celia.” 

Those brown eyes narrowed and the bookshelf beside Buffy shuddered, the item’s lining it inching towards the edge of their shelves. “I want to play a game.” She stamped her foot, the artifacts and books jumping with the irritated movement and Buffy winced as Celia smiled. “I think we should play avalanche.” 

“No, we shouldn’t.” 

The trembling of the bookshelf stopped, hesitated as Celia’s head titled back, she looked up at Buffy, silent a moment before asking, “Then what should we play?” 

Buffy inched forward, closer to her cousin’s spirit and tightened her grip on the poker as she let it drop to her side. “How’bout hide and seek?” 

Her lips spread wide, showing the small gap in her smile where’d she lost a tooth the weekend before her death. The weekend she called Buffy to tell her the tooth fairy had left her a whole dollar. Tears welled and Buffy blinked them back, willed them away as Celia continued to stare up at her. 

Her smile wilted and she shook her head. “You only wanna play hide and seek ‘cause you always win.” The hands at her sides slowly balled into fists and her chin lifted, brown eyes narrowing. “You do want to play with me. Don’t you, Buffy?” 

“Always, Celia. I just need to take this to my friends and then I’ll come right back.” 

Celia looked up at her, pleading again. “Promise?” 

“Cross my heart.” 

Her head cocked, the smile turning cold. “And hope to die?” 

Buffy flinched and hefted the poker higher. Celia flickered, vanished and Buffy’s breath shuddered outward before she hurried toward the railing leading to the stairs. A sudden and intense cold speared into her back, brought Buffy to her knees and she gasped, crying out as the cold sharpened into pain and spread outward encasing her heart. It gave an uneven lurch as the cold, the ache tightened towards agony and Celia’s voice floated out from behind her. “We’ll play together forever.” 

She gasped, the pain intensifying and Buffy tightened her grip on the poker, twisted it and stabbed it backwards, into Celia. There was a scream and the cold crushing her heart vanished. Buffy fell forward, coughing and swallowing the urge to heave as she pushed herself onto her feet. Clutching the poker and Dormer’s hex-bag as she stumbled down the first section of steps and stopped when she saw Ford at the bottom of the stairs. 

He waved. “Summers.”

Her nostrils flared, jaw tightening before she caught the railing and vaulted it. Her knees bent to absorb the small impact as she landed and Buffy flinched, swung the poker at Ford as he suddenly appeared in front of her. The iron swept through his form, turning him into black smoke that swirled upward and around her. 

“Power Girl, help me!” 

Celia’s voice echoed across the training room and Buffy ignored it, running for the small hall that lead into Dormer’s den. She skidded into it, shoulder striking the opposite wall as her momentum carried her forward and Buffy pushed herself off, saw Faith’s newly bruised and startled face in the open entryway and tossed her the hex-bag. She caught it and motioned for Buffy to hurry, eyes going wide as she caught sight of something behind the blonde. 

Her shoulder jerked and Buffy was tugged back, not one foot from the salt-line. She heard Faith’s angry cry of, “son of a bitch,” and knew her sister Slayer would follow her, try to save her as she collided with the wall at the end of the small hallway. Her head snapped back and she blinked, found Ford directly in front of her and smiling and for the second time that night a cold hand was plunged into her body. 

Ford’s aim was better then Celia’s was Buffy’s last coherent thought before the pain arched her back and she screamed, blood rising to coat the back of her throat. The pain vanished and she sagged against the wall before her eyes opened, narrowed on Faith as she struggled to pull the sword out of the drywall beside them. A figure appeared behind her and Buffy’s arm rose and she pushed her protesting body forward, speared Merrick with the poker before he could thrust his hands into Faith’s back. 

“Thanks.” She glanced up to see Faith’s grateful smile as she finally dislodged the sword and caught Buffy’s arm as she sagged against the opposite wall. “Sorry, B. No rest for the wicked.” 

She dragged Buffy up and onto her feet, taking most of her weight as she turned them to head back toward the safety of the den. Buffy winced as a small frame flickered into existence between them and safety, she felt Faith tense beside her, but she kept her focus on Celia as her wounded eyes turned upward. “Don’t leave me.” 

Those eyes widened, the brown of her irises fracturing, filling with a light and her image flickered, shattered, spilling blue light across the two wounded Slayers as the spirit disintegrated under the brilliance of it and the light spread outward filling the house. Buffy winced as more screams were heard and her head lifted, she watched Dormer, her brow creased, cross the salt-line. 

“Thanks, Professor.” 

Blue eyes took quick stock of them before her mouth set in a grim line as she shook off Faith’s thanks and clarified. “That wasn’t me.”


	8. Oleander Wine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Scooby Doo theme song was written by David Mook and Ben Raleigh, and performed by Larry Marks.

Chapter 8: Oleander Wine

Lashes fluttered and Buffy shifted onto her side, eyes opening wide before narrowing on the darkened living room. Her elbow dug into the soft fabric of the chaise she’d fallen asleep on as she pushed herself up. The phone Willow had used to frantically call Oz to check on him, the last lucid memory Buffy had of the evening, was still sitting cattycorner to her on the side table. Her head shook as she fully righted herself and the crushed-velvet throw covering her slipped down to pool at her waist. Exposing her shoulders to the cool recycled air and Buffy glanced down, taking in the sight of her new, thank God, pajamas.

The spaghetti-thin straps sat comfortable on her shoulders and the top hugged her upper body, fit her properly and snuggly, but it did little to hide the scar covering the expanse of her right shoulder. The handprint had faded from angry red welts to pale pink scar tissue. The only scar left after her resurrection. Buffy lifted her head, ignored the telltale mark as she eased her legs over the side of the chaise and stood. Catching the throw as it slid down her legs and rearranged it over the back of the lounge before taking stock of the quiet room. 

A plasma television’s wide screen reflect her actions back at her as Buffy turned in a half circle to ensure she _was_ alone before the nagging urge to get a drink spun her toward the hallway. Her jaw tensed as she barely stifled a gasp and her eyes narrowed on Castiel as he filled the arched entryway. “Polite people knock.” 

Her harsh whisper raised his brows and he entered the room slowly, hands kept loose and visible at his sides. “You survived the Rising of the Witnesses. That’s good.” 

The carpet felt odd against her bare feet, too soft, as Buffy stepped forward, toes curling against it. She tried to ignore the sensory memory of harsher things against her skin, abrading her flesh, slicing it. The ghosts had brought too many things, too many emotions to the surface and her chest tightened, she swayed. 

Castiel’s hand swept into view, drew her out of hell—again—and focused Buffy just as her breath caught. She coughed, shoulders hunching and a hand lifted to cover her mouth, muffle the sound. Her throat constricted and she had to swallow twice before her voice worked enough for her to offer a tired, “Thanks.” 

He waited until she'd pulled herself up straight before stating simply, “The Rising of the Witnesses is a sign.” 

“Of the apocalypse,” Buffy raised a brow at Castiel’s almost surprised look, “I’m in the know about some things.” 

“That makes this simpler.” 

Her mouth quirked with the near relief she heard in his voice and she motioned to the lounge behind her. “Mind if I sit for this little meet and greet? Nearly having your heart ripped out twice can take a lot outta a girl.” Not waiting for a reply, Buffy turned her back on Castiel and made her way to the chaise before easing herself down. The tightness in her chest was loosening a little more with each breath, but she wasn’t in the mood to pass out because she overexerted herself—it wouldn’t be the safest thing to do and probably not the most impressive. 

“You’re wounded.” 

“Just figuring that out?” Buffy leaned back against the pillow she’d been sleeping on moments before and arranged the throw around her shoulders. Her fingers skimmed over the softness of her scar and she winced, flinching away from touching it and instead focused on Castiel, her scar-maker, as he moved deeper into the room and closer to her. “Okay, I’m ready. Over-share.” 

His mouth thinned, blue eyes trained on her chest and Buffy resisted the urge to cross her arms over said area of study—except for the part where he seemed to be looking into, not at her. Those eyes lifted, met Buffy’s gaze as he stated, “The Rising of the Witnesses is one of the sixty-six seals. Seals that are being broken by a demon called Lilith.” 

“Lilith?” Her head cocked. “Lilith, as in killing first born sons, Lilith?” 

His chin lifted, eyes narrowing. “Yes and no. Lilith has been known to take on those acts, but she is from a time before that.” 

“Before?” Buffy shivered, suddenly chilled in the air-condition room before she offered weakly, “Oh.” 

A brow lifted and Castiel lowered himself to the couch sitting adjacent to the lounge. Buffy shifted, kept herself facing him with her upper body, legs coming up to tuck against the curve of her backside. “Lilith has a great many followers and there are six hundred seals in need of protection.” 

“I thought you said there were sixty-six.” 

Castiel turned to her, gave a brief nod before clarifying, “Lilith only needs to break sixty-six.” 

Green eyes widened. “Out of six hundred? How in the hell are we supposed to know which seals she’ll go after?” 

“We don’t and she succeeded today. She’s one step closer.” 

“To what?” Buffy inclined her head. “What are the seals protecting?” 

Castiel leaned forward, gaze locking with Buffy’s and filled enough intensity that her throat constricted as he stated. “Think of the seals as locks on a door. The last one opens and Lucifer walks free.”

“Luc—” Buffy choked on the name and coughed, shaking her head before she refocused and tried again, “Lucifer?” She gave an abrupt laugh and pushed the throw from her shoulders before leaning forward. “I guess you gotta take the bad with the good.” Off Castiel’s confused look Buffy clarified, “I’m just starting to accept that there might be a God. I hadn’t thought about the other side of the spectrum yet.”

“There is a God, Buffy.” 

She blinked, frowned at the absolute certainty in the angel’s voice, not that she was surprised. “Think he could get off his ass and fight once and awhile?” Anger blazed, blue eyes narrowing and Buffy flinched. “I’m sorry. Sorry. It’s just…” she trailed off glanced around the darkened room, looking anywhere, but at Castiel. “Tell me what you need me to do.” 

“Arm yourself for the coming battles.” 

Her mouth quirked and she glanced at Castiel as he stood, turned toward her. “I do like weapons.” 

His chin dipped as he gazed down at her. “You’ll need to leave this city. Your friends.” 

“I already kinda figured that. What with our first stellar meeting and all.” She frowned, arched a brow. “Think you can avoid tormenting my eardrums for awhile?”

Castiel’s head cocked. “That is my true voice. Only special people, privileged people can hear it without ill effects.” 

“Go me?” Buffy offered him a tired smile. “Can we save that privilege for emergencies?” 

“We can.”

“Neat-o.” She lifted her chin. “So how am I to fund this crusade?” Castiel’s blank look had Buffy rolling her eyes. “I need this thing called money. You know it makes the world—” He vanished and Buffy flinched back against the cushions, her shoulders sagging as she glanced around the room and found it empty. Her voice dipped toward pissed as she growled, “Dammit.” 

Buffy jerked, eyes opening to find herself curled on her side, the crushed-velvet throw draped over her shoulder and tucked under her chin. She yawned, jaw stretching as she righted herself and looked around the empty and now sun-filled living room. A hand rose to cover her mouth as she stood, letting the throw fall back onto the chaise as she made her way from the room and toward the smell of bacon. 

She found Dormer in the kitchen in a rather comfortable looking, if fashion-challenged, robe that covered her from neck to ankles as she moved about the small room. Steady hands filled a teapot before they switched the pan of sizzling bacon on the burner for the pot and Buffy leaned against the archway, arms crossing as she offered, “Good morning.” 

Dormer turned, giving Buffy a thorough once over, gaze drifting toward her right shoulder and the palm section of the scar that was visible, the scar that had engrossed Dormer for nearly the entire day after Castiel’s knockout visit. She’d measured it, tested it with different ash marks and oils before cataloguing it with her digital camera. 

Buffy uncrossed her arms, breaking the Watcher’s intent focus and she deposited the bacon on a plate covered in paper towels as she stated, voice carefully neutral, “You didn’t make it to your bed last night.” 

She shook her head, ignored Dormer’s interest with her scar and answered, “Guess I fell asleep while the others made their phone calls.” 

“Cordelia didn’t stay very long after the dispersion spell.” 

“Can you blame her?” 

A square chin lifted. “No, I don’t suppose I do.” She turned back to the stove as she asked, “Could you get me the eggs, please?” 

“Sure.” Buffy pushed herself off from the wall and made her way forward. She caught one of the metal bars acting as handles and tugged it, shivering as the cold slipped out the small crack she’d created. Steeling herself, Buffy opened the door and snagged the cardboard carton before slamming it on the cold. She turned, presented Dormer with the eggs. “Where to?” 

“Beside the stove.” Dormer readied a sliver of butter to go into the pan as Buffy opened the carton before placing it down. “You have to leave, don’t you?” 

The question startled Buffy and she stiffened, gave the Watcher a wary look. “Why do you say that?” 

Dormer dropped the butter on the pan, watched it melt and bubble a moment before tilting the pan and spreading it around. “The Witnesses. That spell leads me to believe things are more dire then I’d anticipated.” 

“Castiel dream-walked me last night.” She frowned, glanced at the nearest window and the sun beyond it before correcting, “Or this morning.” 

Dormer glanced at Buffy before turning back to the stove and removed an egg from the carton, cracked it against the side of the pan before dropping it, yoke perfect, into it. “What did he tell you?” 

“That I’m gonna be a busy little Slayer for the next long while.” 

Another egg was added to the pan, then a dash of salt and pepper and a bit of water before Dormer covered it with the lid. The kettle whistled and Buffy winced at the sharp sound and Dormer simply snagged the handle and lifted it from the heat. She turned to Buffy, gaze narrowed as she stated, “We’ll have to get you a mobile before you go. I want us to stay in contact. Share information,” Dormer frowned, “Do you know where you’re needed first?” 

“Los Angeles.” Buffy’s brows tugged together, wondering where that ready answer had come from, but shrugged and added, “I’ve got some contacts there from my Hemery days.” 

“Very well.” Dormer turned, opened a cabinet above the stove and pulled down a ceramic mug. She began to make herself tea before offering, “Perhaps the werewolf could give you a ride into Los Angeles.” 

A frown tugged the corners of Buffy’s mouth down as she prompted, “You don’t like Oz much, do you?” 

“I allow him to live.” 

Dormer’s matter of fact response widened Buffy’s eyes. “That’s kind of you.” 

“Yes, it is.”

~*~

Three olive-colored canvas bags, in varying sizes of giant, from Xander’s Army surplus at home laid on the walkway leading from Dormer’s front door to the driveway. Buffy squatted, unzipping the thirty by fifty inch bag to check over the contents under Willow’s teary-eyed supervision. She sifted through new jeans and jean-type pants, silk-screened tees and tank tops, ignoring the nagging voice warning of wrinkles, before tugging the zipper closed.

Buffy lifted her new coat, the same nifty leather one Cordelia had purchased for her a few days before, from the next bag and draped it across the previous. This bag was slightly smaller and had been built to hold a parachute, but now held her toiletries, under things and pajamas in separate compartments. 

A sniffle was heard above her and Buffy swallowed the urge to rise and pull Willow into her arms and instead check over the final bag that was only halfway filled with her miscellaneous items—also known as new boots and weapons. Green eyes narrowed on the sneakers that had been shoved haphazardly on top and a pointed chin lifted, eyes focusing on her best friend’s face, tearstains ignored, and prompted, “What’re these?” 

Willow shifted, arms coming up to cross around her middle, making her stubbornness known. “You need sneakers.” 

“Willow, I already have your boots.” Buffy motioned to the Doc Martins she was currently wearing beneath her corduroy slacks. “I don’t need your—”

“You do!” The redhead interrupted with a resolute nod of her head before digging a hand into the pocket of her navy skirt. Well-shaped brows rose slow as a small pouch appeared out of Willow’s pocket and was dangled in front of Buffy. “You also need this.” 

She stood, brushing her hands down her thighs, straightening the grey material around recently discussed boots before accepting the black pouch. She pressed down on the soft felt, rolling the pouch between her fingers and felt a dry crumbling plant and heavier, sharper items that could have been quartz or bone. A faintly sweet scent reached Buffy’s nose and she smiled, looking up at Willow before prompting, “It smells good. What is it?” 

Pale eyes met Buffy’s, kept steady contact as she explained. “It’s a protection spell.” Buffy lifted the pouch, sniffed it and a smile tugged at the corners of Willow’s mouth. “That’s the oleander.” Off Buffy’s wide-eyed look she hastily explained, “There’s no part of the plant in there. I soaked the rue stems in oleander wine. It’s made from extracts of the planet, not-not the poisonous parts, but the healing parts and Dormer helped me so there’s no need to worry. Not that you _were_ worrying,” she frowned, “were you?” 

“No,” Buffy smiled, shook her head, “I wasn’t.” To prove her lack of worry she pulled the leather string attached to the pouch over her head and let the felt bag fall to rest against her tank top covered chest. “It definitely goes with this outfit.” 

She stumbled back a step, her arms suddenly filled with Willow and Buffy sighed, wrapped an arm around the other girl’s waist before lifting the other hand to cup the back of her head. Ruffle her short red hair and pulled her own head back, pressed a kiss to Willow’s temple before tightening her arms. 

“I just got you back.” 

Willow’s muffled words closed Buffy’s eyes and she inhaled the bitter scent of sage off the fuzzy sweater she currently had her face buried in before pulling back and away. “Hey, I’m not falling off the face of the earth. I’ve got a nifty new cell phone.” Buffy raised her eyebrows. “Call it.” 

She smiled, if faintly, and nodded. “I’ve already programmed the whole gang’s phone numbers into it.” 

“You did? I had yours, Faith’s and Dormer’s already.” Buffy’s head cocked, hand easing into the narrow space created by the pocket and the fit of her slacks, fingers snagging the thin bit of plastic, chips and an overly large screen. Her thumb tapped the key lock and she scrolled through the names, mouth curving upward. “You put Cordelia in as Queen C?” Her chin rose and Buffy watched as Willow’s smile widened, turn real. “Thanks.” 

Her shoulders lifted, shrugging away Buffy’s gratitude as she glanced over at the darkened windows of the house. “Why aren’t Professor Dormer and Faith here?” Willow turned back to Buffy, looked at her with serious eyes. “They couldn’t stick around to say goodbye?” 

“Faith said she wasn’t good with goodbyes. Dipped out ‘bout an hour or so ago and Dormer had some appointment. She left me with books, a few weapons and a cell phone. I wasn’t inclined to argue.” Buffy locked gazes with Willow and arched a brow. “Plus she seems to have this aversion to Oz.”

Pale eyes shifted, taking in the shrubbery along the walkway as Willow gave a halfhearted reply of, “The Professor doesn’t entirely like Oz.” 

“She hates him,” Buffy stated. 

Willow frowned. “No she doesn’t.” Buffy raised her brows. “Okay. She does, but for good reasons. Reasons she just hasn’t yet shared with the gang.” 

A honk drew the girls apart and into the grass of the front lawn as a black van rumbled up the driveway and the slow squeal of the breaks had Buffy’s nose wrinkling. The large vehicle came to a rocking stop and the side panel opened, rolling back and revealing a smiling Xander. He hopped out, lean frame pulling up straight after a so-so landing. “Buff!” 

Her brows rose as she replied with less enthusiasm. “Xan!” 

He grinned and caught her shoulders, pulling her forward to be engulfed in his arms and the floral print of his shirt as it gapped open around her. Her eyes closed, forehead falling against his chest a moment and his arms tightened to just this side of painful before he let go and backed up, blinking furiously. Buffy ignored his tears, let him will them away as the driver’s side door opened. 

The back edge of the legs of Oz’s jeans had been scraped away, revealing the doodles covering his Converses as he eased his way down and then toward them. His slim frame was dwarfed by Xander’s as blue eyes took a casual survey of Buffy. Hesitated only a beat on the scar exposed by her tank top, his brows quirking before his gaze rose to meet hers and he nodded. “Hey.”

The casualness of his greeting forced a grin as Buffy nodded back to him. “Hey.”

The odd set spikes of his red hair reflected the late afternoon sun as he cocked his head. “It’s good that you’re not dead.” 

“It’s good not to be dead.” 

He nodded, again, and hiked a thumb to point over his shoulder. “Should we head out?” 

“Sure.” Buffy turned and found Willow and Xander already lifting her bags and coat, putting them behind the front seats of Oz’s van and Xander slammed the rolling door. She winced at the sound and swallowed the sudden tightness in her throat, ignored the burning behind her eyes as she looked from Willow to Xander. “So this is where I depart. Don’t miss me too much.” 

They glanced at one another and then, in unison, lunged, creating a small dog pile as Buffy fell back under their combined weight and took all three of them to the damp grass. Laughter filled the yard for a moment as the pair tightened their grasp on various parts of her anatomy and Buffy gasped between giggles, “Is that a hand on my butt?”

More giggles as Willow’s face filled Buffy’s world view and she blushed. “That might’ve been me.” 

“Uh huh.” A sly look was slid toward Xander. “Is she covering for you?” 

“Alas, no.” Brown eyes widened then narrowed as Xander frowned. “I should have thought of that though.” 

A palm found its way to Xander’s chest and Buffy shoved, dislodging him and giving him a boost up at the same time. He stumbled to his feet and offered the two girls a hand that they happily used to right themselves. His grip on Buffy’s arm pulled her forward for one last hug before they separated and Buffy turned to Willow, embracing her. They pulled apart and Buffy took a moment cup Willow’s face, search her gaze before whispering, “You need me. You call me.” She turned, looked up at Xander and arched a brow. “That goes double for you.” 

He nodded, chin dipping toward his chest as he offered her a crisp salute. “Aye, aye Captain.” 

“Slayerettes for life!” 

Willow chirped as Buffy stepped from between them, toward the van and Oz. She turned, smiled at the duo now standing together, their arms linked and eyes red rimmed. Buffy pushed back her own tears and blew them a kiss before taking off at a jog around the front of the van. She opened the door and slid into the passenger seat. The beaded cover felt odd as she settled herself in and swallowed down the angry tears threatening to fall—she’d just gotten her life back only to find out it wasn’t hers anymore. 

Oz eased his way into the driver’s seat and slammed the door with a jolt that rocked the van and Buffy watched as he started the engine. His right hand reached out and up, the two black plastic bracelets adoring his wrist sliding down as he grasped the gearshift and put the van into reverse. He shifted, rising slightly as his hand moved from gearshift to the back of her seat, body angling to see out the back window as he began to back up. Buffy left her intense study of Oz to look out at Willow and Xander and offered them a weak wave, which they returned, as Oz eased them into the street and the van into drive. 

“So,” Oz paused, glanced at Buffy, “I’m guessing I’m taking you to Angel.” 

She straightened—brown eyes paled to green—muscles tensing and Buffy covered her wince by turning toward Oz as he glanced both ways before pulling away from a stop sign. “Willow told you?” 

He nodded, thumbs drumming the steering wheel to a beat in his head. “I get that there’s more to it then she’s letting on.” 

Buffy flinched, sinking deeper into the vinyl seat and its beaded massage cover. “I guess.” 

“I’m not prying.” Oz glanced at her briefly before focusing back on the road. 

“I didn’t think you were.” She watched his brows rise and felt some of the ache in her chest ease before it tightened. “Did anyone think to call Angel? Give him a heads up that we’re coming? That I-I’m coming?” 

“Willow did.” Oz brought the van onto one of the main roads that would lead them out of Sunnydale and continued his thumb drumming. “So it’s cool.”

“Good.” 

A not uncomfortable silence stretched between them a moment before Oz added, his voice casual. “It’s the weekend.” Buffy turned her head, watched his steady drumming pause as he added, “And I might have packed an overnight bag. Just incase, y’know, you needed me to stay a bit with you in L.A.”

A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth and Buffy nodded. “That would be super. Thanks.” 

He shrugged and was saved from answering as something vibrated and burst into song against Buffy’s hip. _“Scooby Dooby Doo, where are you? We’ve got some work to do now. Scooby Dooby Doo…”_ Buffy braced her boot heels against the floorboards and lifted her hips, give herself enough room to wiggle the cell phone out of her pocket and fumble with the keys as a the text symbol flashed on the screen. 

Buffy smile at Willow’s choice in songs and her mouth spread into a grin when she saw Faith’s simple message of, _“Later B.”_

“Important?” 

“A little.” Her thumb compressed the center button, closing the text and she let her hand drop to settle the phone in her lap. “So how are the Dingos doing?” 

Oz nodded and started up his solo drumming again as he explained, mellow and relaxed, “Well the bands easing into this new sound where… we suck. So we’ve had to resort to this thing called practice…”


	9. To Hell and Back

Chapter 9: To Hell and Back

Leather slipped up her arms and settled on her shoulders, hugging them as Buffy adjusted the three-quarter length jacket over her slight frame and Oz fed two dollars worth of quarters into the meter. Her hands reached up, freeing her hair from the collar before they fell to straighten, the already straight-lines, of the jacket. Green eyes rose, taking in the building in front of her and she swallowed, tilting her head back to see past the third floor and higher to the roof.

White teeth caught her bottom lip and she worked over it as Oz came to stand beside her. Buffy kept her gaze forward, lowering it to the neat plaques, mirroring either side of the four door entrance, with the numbers six, two and seven depicted on them. Her next breath expelled with a ‘whoosh’ that pushed her lips forward and Buffy straightened, pulled her shoulders back and glanced at Oz who inclined his head. “Ready?” 

Her chin dipped, a quick glance taking in his rumpled blue shirt that had seen bluer days and his worn in jeans. Nerves tickled the back of her throat as she asked, “Am I overdressed?” 

A brow quirked, the corner of his mouth following suit and Oz sidestepped her, leaving Buffy to follow him up the few steps to the multiple-door entrance. “Shut up, Buffy,” was muttered under her breath as she followed the, currently, redheaded werewolf and caught the door Oz opened as it was about to swing closed. She slipped inside and hesitated at the office type feel to the first floor of the Angel’s building. 

Checkered linoleum covered the floors and, while ugly, it seemed functional and neat and the floors led to two sets of stairs on opposite sides of the room. The right side held a small brochure area and a set of stairs paused at a slightly elevated office before continuing on upward. The left side, the side Oz was currently heading towards, had a small set of stairs leading down to another office door. Buffy’s head cocked when Oz rapped his knuckles against the glass and then turned, offered her another amused look that tugged her forward and quickly down the steps. 

She reached Oz’s side just as the door swung inward and a man filled the doorway. Narrowed blue eyes swept over Oz before settling on Buffy and dark brows rose beneath messily spiked hair. “Aren’t you a sweet looking thing,” the Irish lilt to his voice almost helped veil the insult to the second half of his greeting, “Of course looks tend ta be deceiving.” 

Buffy crossed her arms over her tumbling stomach, the new leather of her coat groaning in protest of the movement as she sank into a cocked-hip pose. “Who’re you?” 

A hand rose to scratch absently at the side of his mouth before he cleared his throat and stepped to the side, opening the door wider before stating, “I’m Doyle.” 

Oz glanced at Buffy and they shared a silent look before she shrugged and stepped forward, ahead of Oz to enter the office. Keeping Doyle in her peripheral vision she glanced around the dust-covered space and she felt the nervous butterflies rise to tickle the back of her throat—or was it bile—either way she swallowed it down. Her borrowed Docs were nearly noiseless against the linoleum floor as Buffy moved to the center of what she assumed was the receptionist’s area. 

Taking in the boxes piled along the far wall and the two desks stacked on top of one another Buffy hesitated before turning back to Doyle and his suspicious stare. “Did he just move in?” 

The attempt at casual conversation was interrupted by the steady whine of a motor and Buffy spun, looked through the office beyond the area they stood in to watch an elevator inch upward to fill an empty space in the wall. The gate rolled back and the hands gripping the arms of her jacket tightened, became clammy. She uncrossed her arms and flexed her fingers as she watched Angel free himself of the elevator and his gaze locked on her. 

She took an involuntary step back, pupils spiraling out as her eyes shifted from right to left and she waited for it all to melt away, for the world to melt away and the fire in the pit spark to life. The tightness in her stomach twisted, sharpening into actual pain as the fear inside of her solidified, held weight and the wound inside of her, that Willow had tried so damn hard to heal, ripped open and she staggered. 

Oz was suddenly there, his hand on her arm and leading her toward the one of the many dust covered desks. He leaned her against it as she struggled to breathe. To ignore the harsh whispers telling her this was just another mind-fuck courtesy of Alastair’s prized pupil. Tears welled, spilling down her cheeks and Angel’s shadow crossed her and Oz and she flinched, curling away from the touch of it. From the touch of _him_ and his hand fell away, silver rings sparking in the muted light. 

“Buffy.” 

She looked up, her lashes and cheeks damp from her tears and she saw the concern in Oz’s eyes. _Oz._ He’d never been in hell. He’d never been a part of the torment and Buffy’s gaze shifted to the blue-eyed Doyle. His suspicion melted beneath her tears and he now gazed at her with pity—no one pitied another soul in hell. 

This wasn’t hell. 

Her next breath shuddered outward, bowing her shoulders before she turned, looked up at Angel’s guarded face. His eyes were brown, brown and sad. “You’re real.” Buffy’s harsh whisper had Oz stepping back, letting Angel come forward, take his place in front of her, but he remained at arm’s length. Her chin lifted, tilted as she continued to stare at him, shocked and frightened before her brows dipped and her voice took on a critical edge. “You’re using too much hair gel.” 

An abrupt sound escaped Angel’s chest and rumbled in his throat as his mouth struggled not to smile and Buffy pushed herself onto her feet, head falling back so that she could still see Angel’s eyes, the color of them and the lack of rage. His hand reached out, painfully slow to settle his knuckles against her cheek and suddenly she was in his arms, inhaling the familiar scent of sandalwood and jasmine. 

She buried herself against him, her ear pressed to the silence of his chest as she heard the lilting voice of Doyle state in a stage whisper, “Now this is awkward.” 

“A bit.” Her lips quirked with Oz’s confirmation. 

“Beer?” 

“Coffee?”

“Whatever gets us gone.” 

“Sound plan.” 

The door slammed behind them and Buffy tightened her hold on Angel, biceps tensing before she stepped back and he slowly let her go. She took a moment to wipe at her eyes before lifting her face up to Angel’s once more, saw him watching her, eyes still brown. “Coffee does sound good.” 

His gaze swept over her face before meeting hers and he searched it. Looked hard and deep and whatever he founded curved his mouth downward before he offered, his voice soft, “I have tea.” 

“Tea works.” 

The heavy weight of his stare stayed on her a moment longer before Angel spun, making his way toward the elevator and left Buffy to bring up the rear. Her brows arched with the billowing of his coat and a smirk twisted a corner of her mouth upward as they stepped into the small grate-enclosed box. Angel caught the edge of the gate as Buffy slipped in beside him and then slammed it, locking the latch before striking the lever to lower them down to, Buffy assumed, his home. The whirring motor distracted her and she tilted her head back, watched the cranking of the cord lowering them down and attempted to ignore the urge to cry or scream that was tightening her chest. 

A grinding filled the small box and the elevator shuddered to a stop. Buffy eased back, careful to avoid physical contact, as Angel moved ahead of her to slide back the gate and then the metal filled screen, freeing them. Green eyes swept over the open space of his apartment, hesitating on the sight of his bed and she swallowed before taking a step forward, crossing the invisible threshold and into his home. 

Angel moved into the apartment, pushing his way through a pair of unnecessary doors and Buffy followed, offered him a weak smile when he kept one open for her and entered a wide hallway. Archways led into a library and kitchen across from them and Buffy moved forward, toward the kitchen with Angel acting as her shadow. She flexed her cold hands, returning blood flow to them with the slow, precise movements as she entered the kitchen and stopped at the small dinette set that was placed in the center. 

Catching the edge of one chair she dragged it out with the harsh sound of metal scraping concrete and sat, the hard plastic supporting her back as she watched Angel move around her and turn on the stove. It clicked, flame sparking beneath a front burner as he filled a kettle with water. His voice was soft, almost reverent, as he placed the kettle over the burner and asked, “How are you?” 

“Hating that question.” Buffy flinched and closed her eyes, chin dipping toward her chest before she rectified her instantaneous response with, “As good as can be expected.” 

“Willow,” he paused and Buffy opened her eyes, look up to see Angel turned toward her and leaning against the counter near the stove. He met her gaze and tried again. “Willow told me,” he hesitated before adding, “What you’ve been through.” 

“Willow doesn’t know what I’ve been through.” 

The bitterness in her tone drew Angel fully to his feet and he moved toward the dinette set. Buffy’s head drew back so that she could keep eye contact as he stated, “She said you wouldn’t talk about it.”

“Would you?” Her head turned, studying the brickwork across from her. “What’s there to talk about? I was in hell. Now I’m not.” She turned back to him, her gaze angry. “End of story.” 

He frowned. “That’s a pretty short story.” He pulled out the seat next to hers and sat, watching her as he did so. “Five months in hell is a long time. It’d be almost fifty years from your perspective.” 

Buffy winced, easing back from Angel. “How’d you?” 

“I looked into it.” Brown eyes flitted across her face, searching. “Don’t you think I tried to free you?” 

Her cheeks cooled, the color leaving them fast enough to make them tingle. “You knew?” 

“Of course I knew.” A hand was placed in the center of the table, halfway reaching toward her and Buffy stared at it as Angel continued, “I summoned every demon I knew and some I didn’t trying to free you. To take your place. They wouldn’t let me.” 

His fingers flexed, blunt nails catching against the vinyl cushion covering the table and Buffy’s hands rose, cupped the table’s edge as Angel added, more to himself then for her, “I’m sorry I couldn’t save you.” 

Damp lashes closed, her jaw thrusting forward as she shook her head. “Don’t apologize. I killed you.” Her eyes opened, looked toward Angel’s carefully neutral face. “I took your soul.”

“No, you didn’t.” 

“I did.” Her voice broke and she stiffened, swallowed the tears threatening to debase her a second time in the same hour. “I know I did and I was punished for it.” 

“Buffy,” he sighed her name and leaned forward, his hand staying just between them, “You didn’t deserve to be punished. You didn’t deserve hell.” 

A shoulder rose and fell, the leather of her jacket groaning with the movement. “It doesn’t matter now. I’m free.” She ignored the urge to tell him the truth, that they’d used her love for him against her. She wanted to take his hand, feel the weight of it as it wrapped around her fingers and not fear retribution. Instead she focused on the reason for her coming to Los Angeles, to Angel and asked, “You wouldn’t happen to have heard anything about a demon called Lilith, would you?” 

Brown eyes blinked, the heavyset of his brow line falling with the sudden change in topics, but he took it in stride and shook his head. “No, not lately. Why?” 

“Cause she’s hell-bent on bringing on Armageddon.” Her mouth quirked when Angel simply blinked at her in surprise and she added, “Lilith seems to have the idea that freeing Lucifer from hell would be a good time.” 

“Lucifer?” Angel’s head cocked and his hand slowly retracted from between them. “Willow had mentioned you were brought back by an angel.” 

Buffy nodded. “His name’s Castiel and he seems like the real deal. He’s immune to salt, iron and devil’s traps so I might be inclined to believe him. Plus he did save my ass.” 

“Salt, iron and devil’s traps?” Angel’s frown became more pronounced, “Buffy, what kind of demons are you fighting?” 

“The really nasty ones?” She shrugged. “They are different from the kind I’m use to. Less extra appendages and bad facials. More fire and brimstone.” 

The kettle gave off a shrill whistle and Angel pushed himself to his feet. Buffy watched him turn, make his way to the stove and lift the noisy thing from the stove, silencing it before moving on to the cupboards. Her head cocked, lips twisting down as she added under her breath, “I’m waging a war without any financial backing. It should be fun.” 

Two ceramic cups were placed on the counter and two tea packets draped over the sides before Angel added the water and turned back to her. “Do you need money?” 

Her eyes widened and she winced, not having intended Angel to hear that last bit. “No, I-I’ll be good.” She ignored the raising of Angel’s brows as she continued, “I could get a-a job.” Her shoulders dipped. “But then I’d need ID and a social security number _not_ attached to a dead person.” She paused and then brightened, offering halfheartedly, “I could rob a bank!” 

“You could do that.” Angel placed the mug in front of her before retaking his seat next to her. “Or you could let me help you.” 

“I didn’t come here looking for a handout.” 

“I know.” He paused and Buffy watched his eyes widened before he leaned forward. “The Hyperion.” 

Buffy raised her brows. “The Hi-what-su?” 

He shook his head, his features taking on a more animated, or as animated as Angel got, light as he continued, “I can help you.” 

She smiled, slow and sure. “I never thought you couldn’t.”


	10. Life, Interrupted

Chapter 10: Life, Interrupted

Sunlight reflected off the white privacy fence that surrounded the back yard and in-ground swimming pool, nearly blinding Buffy as she moved from the sidewalk to the trees lining one side of the property. Her mother’s Jeep Cherokee sat in the driveway of the home and according to Angel, Joyce and Hank Summers had reconciled. They had managed to work through the differences that had driven them apart and were trying to rebuild their lives together, without her.

Buffy lowered herself into a squat, letting the leather satchel she carried drop between her legs as the front door opened, spilling Joyce out into the late afternoon sunlight. Wildly curled hair swept forward to crowd her features as she dipped her chin, arm lifting her purse to search for her keys. Buffy rose slightly, a smile tugging at her lips as she watched her mother mouth swearwords into said purse before a triumphant, “Ah ha,” escaped her as Joyce dragged the keys free. 

“Joyce!”

She flinched, crouching lower and back as her father followed her mother down the walkway, a large cardboard cylinder in his hands and a faint smile of amusement twisting his mouth. Joyce’s head lifted and she turned, a quiet conversation followed. Green eyes narrowed, watching the way Joyce leaned into Hank as he spoke, her face tilted upward and towards him as they talked in calm, unhurried tones. 

A few minutes passed before Hank rose, caught the back of her mother’s head and planted a gentle kiss on her forehead. Buffy’s head lowered, turned to the side with the casual display of affection and her hand reached out, snagged the dust covered bag from the ground and stood. 

Feeling very much the voyeur Buffy eased back and away from the scene, not bothering to watch her mother leave the property as she turned away from it. She hadn’t planned on seeing them, on coming back to her childhood home, but after the Hyperion she’d wanted to see something outside her current slash and hack existence. 

Her hands tensed, fingers tightening around the satchel filled with the unmarked bills that the mulatto woman had stolen from her job nearly fifty years before. She’d stolen it because society back then had been less understanding about biracial unions and their children and, Buffy added out loud to herself, “Because she could.” 

Unfortunately for her, but fortunately for Buffy, she’d picked a demon controlled hotel to hole up in. A demon that had been more than a little annoying with its ability to cause mass paranoia through obnoxious whispers—then again—Buffy had dealt with worse during her stint in hell. She paused in her forward momentum to glance both ways before crossing the main street toward the bus stop she’d been dropped off at earlier. 

The bench had a small awning offering a slight reprieve from the Los Angeles sun and Buffy made herself comfortable beneath it. The leather satchel taking the spot beside her and she took a moment to brush at some of the larger spots of grit and dirt as she resisted the urge to open the it one more time and look at the bundles upon bundles of bound bills. Her hand continued its casual back and forth motion across the top of the bag as she glanced up, looked over the bus schedule posted on the narrow wall beside her. 

Number one twenty-six seemed to be her bus and would be coming by in about twenty minutes, more than enough time to call Oz and update him on her whereabouts and next destination. Her sneaker-covered feet began to bounce to an internal tune as Buffy reached into the front pocket of her fitted hoodie to snag the cell phone Dormer had been kind enough to provide, her gaze slipped to the bag, that Buffy would be more than happy to repay her for now. Her thumb compressed the central button and she skimmed through the few numbers she had to find Oz’s and hit talk. 

Waiting for the connection to take Buffy watched the few cars speed past and her brows rose when the speaker suddenly began with, _“The jig is up, the news is out, they finally found me. The renegade who had it made retrieved for a bounty…”_ Buffy suppressed the urge to sing along with the Styx, her father’s all time favorite band, and instead refocused as someone answered. 

“Oz? Hey.” She smiled with the familiar cadence of his voice and proceeded to explain that her next destination wasn’t going to be Angel’s.

~*~

“She’s got a rough time ahead of her, that one.”

Oz looked up from his cell phone, chipped-black polished nail compressing a red button and ending his phone call to Buffy. He nodded his agreement with Doyle’s casual observation and ignored the irritation of Angel’s gaze boring into the back of his head. Instead he turned said head to the side, put the vampire in his peripheral vision as he explained, “The Hyperion made good on your promise and Buffy’ll be back sometime later.” 

“She’s not on her way now?” 

The plastic chair groaned as Oz did a one-eighty, upper body twisting so that he could watch Angel come forward from the hallway beside the kitchen. The agitation in the vampire’s tone forced him to shake his head and added, “There’s someone else she wanted to look up first.” 

Metal scraped over the concrete as Doyle brought his chair closer to the table he shared with Oz. The button up blue shirt he wore gapped open around a white undershirt as his upper body leaned forward and he snagged the beer in front of him. Long fingers wrapped around the condensation lined bottle before he tipped it back, took a long pull before asking, “Did she happen ta mention who she was goin’ ta visit?” 

“No.” Oz arched a brow, not particularly liking the undercurrents to the conversation. “Any reason she should?” 

Angel moved to take the seat next to Oz and across from Doyle. The redhead leaned back, brought a Converse covered foot up to rest across his thigh as he glanced back and forth between the two. Brown eyes narrowed before Angel looked up, put Oz under that intense stare once more. “You didn’t think to ask?” 

His head inclined, mouth curving as he brought his hands up to rest across his stomach, fingers interlocking. Angel frowned and sighed, “Right,” he turned his focus on Doyle, “Did you get started on the documents for Buffy?” 

“Have I ever let you down?” Doyle winced and hastily added, “Wait! You don’t hafta answer that.” He took another sip from his beer before placing it down and leaned forward, elbows digging into the thin cushioned table top. “I should have it back by ta’morrow,” he paused, sent Angel a hooded look, “’course I could get it sooner if I could—”

“You’re not getting anymore money.” 

Angel’s quick interruption raised Oz’s brows as Doyle frowned, ran a hand through his hair, messing the haphazard spikes up even more. “Fine. But don’t go blamin’ me if the work’s shoddy-like.” 

The vampire leaned forward, his voice lowering with his irritation and Oz stiffened a little, brows pulling together, with the growl that slipped into his words. “You told me these people were the best.” 

“And they are!” Doyle sighed, glanced first to Oz, found no help or understanding, and then back to Angel, much of the same. “They just might like a little extra instinctive from time ta time. Keeps ‘em happy and me healthy.” 

Oz turned, easing back to look at Angel and the vampire’s eyes narrowed. “How much do you owe them?” 

“Angel! I’m hurt that ya think I…” he trailed off, saw his words held little affect, and shrugged, “A measly five,” he coughed, “thousand.” 

Blue eyes widened and Oz found himself straightening in his seat, foot falling from his thigh to the floor as he prepared himself to ease back and away should the vampire lunge across the small table to pummel the smaller man. Doyle seemed to have the same idea as he suddenly slipped out of his chair, knocking it to the ground with a clatter, and kept the table between himself and the vampire as Angel rose slowly to his feet. 

“Five _thousand_ dollars?” He moved around the table and Oz stiffened, back straightening when Doyle moved behind him. Placing him dead center as Angel’s voice rose in volume and pitch. Which proved that vampires _could_ speak from the diaphragm even with the whole lack of breath thing—huh—learn something new everyday. 

“Doyle!” 

“Now wait just’a damn minute!” Oz stood, moved out from between them, ignoring the scandalized look Doyle sent him before the man refocused. “Now Angel, we’re friends. We’re pals.” He swallowed and tossed a pleading look toward Oz. “Pals don’t beat on each other.”

Oz shrugged. “Not in the strictest sense.” 

“Or the physical!” Doyle nodded, turning frantic as Angel kept up his dodgy movements. “The physical sense of beating would be bad also.” 

Oz hesitated a beat before intervening. “As interesting as this is,” his hands rose, made a calming motion to encompass the room, “I think we forgot something.” 

Angel paused in his pursuit of Doyle to shoot Oz a considering look. “Forgot what?” 

“Transportation.” He paused, glanced back and forth at their blank looks and explained, “Or Buffy’s lack of it.” 

“He’s right!” Doyle slipped further away from Angel and closer to the wide hallway beside the kitchen that would lead him to the stairs and freedom. “How’a’bout I run out and find her a car. Reliable, cheap and safe. Just like you, Angel.” 

Oz smiled as the vampire’s eyes narrowed at the implied insult, but Doyle had already slipped passed him and was inching up the stairs as Angel turned toward him. He tipped an imaginary hat to Angel and was gone. Oz watched the exchange with a shake of his head before he moved back to the dinette set and righted the chair Doyle had knocked over in his hast to get away from hands that would’ve damage his pride more than his body. 

The calming motion of righting something eased some of the tension left by Doyle and Oz gazed at Angel a moment before prompting, “So who teaches Buffy to drive?” 

He blinked, frowned. “Good question.” 

Their gazes met, silence stretching between them before Oz shrugged. “I’ll do it.” Angel nodded and made his way closer to the table, taking a seat and motioning Oz to take another. The redhead raised his brows as he sat. “I guess this means we’re not going to share a stoic silence.” 

Angel’s mouth curved upward into the first real smile Oz was pretty certain he’d ever seen on the vampire and the uneasy air between them began to lose friction. “Tell me about the new Slayer and Watcher.” 

His head inclined, his own mouth quirking with Angel’s lack of pretense. “Faith is zesty and Professor Dormer is at the stage where she hates me.” He frowned at his own choice in words and corrected by asking, “More precisely?” Angel’s brows rose and Oz added, “She hates _what_ I am.” 

A square chin lifted, brown eyes narrowing on Oz, considering. “Would she turn Buffy in?” 

“Possibly.” Oz inclined his head, “She’s loyal to Faith and seems to like Willow because she’s useful.” 

“So if she deems Buffy a danger or no longer useful…” 

“Then there’s a real possibility she’d set her up to be killed.” 

Angel’s shoulders rose and fell with a sigh. “Damn.” 

Oz nodded. “Yeah.”

~*~

Night had fallen, the moon rising above the high walls surrounding the institution Buffy had spent the better part of a month being subjected to after her less then stellar exit from Hemery. Buffy’s head tilted, her blonde ponytail sweeping to one side as she watched a small pile of leaves twist and dance against the asphalt of the parking lot. Her mouth twisted into a faint smile, watching as a cup joined the show, and she waited against a station wagon.

The familiar wood-paneling had been easy to recognize among the newer and nicer cars the other doctors and nurses owned, but then Watchers weren’t known for their excellent taste in motor vehicles. Buffy had known a few Watchers in her time and even though Dr. Primrose was retired, it appeared that she still had ugly car syndrome. 

Not that she was complaining—no way—she was glad Primrose still had a monstrosity for a vehicle, a vehicle Buffy was currently leaning against. It made waiting for her easier. Of course now Primrose just needed to _actually_ leave her place of work. Too many crazy people to leave behind, Buffy supposed, as she crossed her arms and kept the satchel between her sneaker-encased feet. The wind dipped, suddenly falling away and leaving Buffy without a show to entertain her and she redirected her gaze to the white specks in the asphalt beneath her feet. 

Unwilling to stare up at the stone walls that encircled the two overly large brick buildings that housed the men and women of Heritage Oak Hospital, Buffy kept her gaze downward. Kept her feelings about being placed in a mental institution for telling the damn truth in check—not an easy task that. 

The clacking of heels against asphalt drew Buffy from her self-pity and her head up. Dr. Primrose’s head was down, short brown hair, that barely brushed the tops of her ears, was on full display as she flipped through a manila folder and used an unhurried stride to make her way toward her station wagon. Buffy straightened and uncrossed her arms, made herself look as harmless as possible before clearing her throat. 

Primose halted, head snapping up and baring her weathered features to Buffy’s considering gaze as blue eyes narrowed and then widened. “Miss Summers?” 

“In the flesh.” Buffy stepped forward, around the satchel and offered her a tired wave. “How’ve ya been?” 

The older woman arched a brow before sliding the manila folder into her briefcase and pulled out a small object, tossing it to Buffy who caught it on reflex. Green eyes glanced down and a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth before she raised her head and showed Primrose the cross and her unblemished hands. “Not a vampire.” 

“I was informed of your passing.” She stayed rooted to her spot several feet away, face set in neutral lines. “Care to explain your sudden vitality?” 

Buffy cleared her throat and reached for the closed zipper of her hoodie. Primrose flinched and backed up a step, Buffy paused, hands hovering over the metal clasp as she offered, voice soft and as soothing as it got, “I’m just gonna open my sweater and show you a scar on my shoulder.” 

“A scar?” Swallowing the urge to smirk at the edge of curiosity she heard in Primrose’s tone, Buffy instead raised her brows and waited. Primrose didn’t retake her backpedal, but she did lift an impatient hand and motioned for her to hurry. “Well on with it.” 

Dipping her head to hide her smile, Buffy complied and ignored the sudden echo as the zipper released. With her left hand she eased the soft material off her right shoulder and turned, presenting Primrose with an unobstructed view of the handprint encompassing the slope of that shoulder. Even retired, she seemed intrigued and took a step forward and then another until she stood at Buffy’s side and lifted her shoulder toward one of the security lights spread throughout the parking lot. 

“What made this?” 

Buffy arched a brow and offered, somewhat weakly, “An Angel of the Lord.” 

Primrose’s focus shifted from the scar to Buffy’s face. “I’m sorry, what?” 

“An Angel of the Lord,” she shrugged, dislodging Primrose’s hold and stepped back, closer to the car and knocked over the leather satchel. With a muttered curse Buffy fell to her knees and righted it before tilting her head back and sending the ex-Watcher a level stare. “He said his name was Castiel and that God commanded he save me from hell.”

A line appeared between her brows as she blatantly ignored the small tidbit about Buffy being in hell and instead focused on what she’d been show instead, “Then it’s a divine mark.” She motioned Buffy back. “Well come on then.” Buffy frowned and stood as Primrose raised her brows and asked, “I’d prefer to have this conversation in a more pleasant setting, wouldn’t you?” 

Freeing a set of keys from the pocket of her sweater, Primrose turned, unlocking the driver’s side door of the station wagon as Buffy made her way slowly around the front and to the passenger’s side. Once seated Primrose leaned over the center console to unlock the door for Buffy and waited for her to be seated with her seatbelt on before starting the car. The engine purred to life and Buffy’s brows rose with the healthy sound. Maybe Giles had simply missed the Watcher-class on actually taking care of one’s mode of transportation. 

Her movements were slow and controlled as Primrose backed the large vehicle out of the tight spot and led them out of the parking lot. Buffy shifted, slipping the satchel off her lap and arranged it on the floorboards at her feet before lifting her head and watching the streets slowly pass by outside her window. Silence stretched between them for several long, uncomfortable moments before the ex-Watcher stopped at a red light and asked, “You do understand what that mark entails, don’t you?” 

She turned, saw Buffy’s confused frown and sighed, “That mark was made upon your soul, Buffy. The scar is simply a manifestation of it.” Buffy’s eyes widened and the light turned green forcing Primrose to focus her gaze back on the road before she explained, “This Castiel can use that mark to find you at anytime, any place.” 

“Good thing he’s on our side.” 

The wrinkles surrounding her knuckles smooth as her grip on the wheel tightened. “Are you so certain?” 

“He saved me.” Buffy turned her gaze on her lap, watched her hands fiddle with the metal clasp of her zipper as her voice dropped in volume. “That puts him in the possible good guy column. I guess.”

“I suppose.” The station wagon picked up speed as they pulled onto a larger road and moved further from the city lights. “The mark itself could only have been created by a being of immense power and the knowledge of how to use that power.” 

“Which is pretty much a given at this point.” 

“Perhaps.” The world outside the car whipped by and Buffy raised a brow at the speed in which Primrose drove even as she carried on a casual conversation about angels. “Have you had any other contact with the being outside your resurrection?” 

She nodded, realized belated that Primrose couldn’t see it and stated, “Yeah. I’ve spoken with him a few times.” 

“You’ve spoken with him?” 

Buffy heard the thinly veiled trepidation and clarified, “When he speaks the volumes is a bit much.” She shrugged and added, “I’ve seen him in all his crypto-color glory once and my dreams another time.” 

“He has the ability to enter your dreams?” Buffy turned, gazed at the side of Primrose’s head, the neat hoop in her ear reflected the streetlights they passed under. There was a pregnant pause before blue eyes shifted to Buffy briefly before she focused back on the road. “A Slayer’s dreams are a sacred thing, Buffy. You well know that.” 

“I do.” She sighed, turned away from Primrose to look out the front window and ignore the nagging memory, the knowledge that she’d known about Angel’s death, his loss of soul before it had even transpired and she’d still allowed it to happen. Her voice filled with regret as she stressed, “I understand that completely. Believe you, me.” 

The station wagon slowed, taking the next turn off before Primrose asked, “Has the Watchers Council been made aware of your resurrection?”

“No.” Buffy shook her head, arms crossing around her center as she added, “Dormer didn’t think that the wisest thing. She thought they’d more than likely kill first, ask questions never.” 

“Dormer?” Buffy could hear the frown in her voice. “Diana Dormer? She was a professor at Harvard University?” 

“I guess. I mean, her first name was Diana and she was a professor, but I didn’t think to ask her where.”

“It’s quite alright, Buffy. I’m sure she’s absolutely correct in this matter.” The turn signal flashed to life and Primrose led the station wagon in another right turn and Buffy noticed the small manicured lawns that suddenly surrounded them. “I told you before that the Council is filled with incredible intelligent people, but they are just people. With the same wants and fears as anyone else.” 

She stiffened, turned her head slowly to glare at Primrose. “Are you making excuses for them?” 

“Yes and no.” She sighed and made another turn. “I understand their fear and their resolve that anything _not_ human is a threat to humanity,” a faint smile tugged at her mouth, “although, just because I understand it, doesn’t mean I agree with it.” 

“Yay?” 

Buffy didn’t bother to hide her sarcasm, but it was ignored as the station wagon pulled into the driveway of a simple one-story home. The color was muted by the moonlight and the headlights did little to lift the dull grey tint before they dimmed and Primrose shut off the engine. The driver’s side door opened, noiseless, and the ex-Watcher eased her way free of the car. Buffy hesitated only a moment before snagging her bag and following the other woman up the small stone-filled walkway. She opened the front door and entered, leaving the invitation unsaid as she stepped back and waited. 

Buffy shook her head before crossing the threshold into a small living room overwhelmed with bookshelves and filled with books and artifacts. Her brows rose as she moved forward, set the satchel beside a coffee table also cluttered with books and newspaper clippings. Green eyes narrowed on the large, sheet-covered, lump that she assumed was the couch and was also buried beneath several layers of books and cardboard boxes. 

“Nice place.” 

Primrose came to stand next to her, a smile lifting the corners of her mouth. “Yes, well I wasn’t expecting company.” 

“This century or ever?” 

A brow arched and Buffy offered her a quick baring of teeth, that she supposed could be classified as a smile and Primrose shook her head. “Please remove your jacket.” She nodded her head toward Buffy’s shoulder and scar. “There are a few ways to test that mark. To ensure that what brought you back does hold the divine spark.” 

“Cool.” Buffy shrugged out of her hoodie and frowned, glanced from dust covered satchel to dust covered couch and turned toward the other woman. “Got anywhere not covered in yuck that I can hang this?” 

“Hall closet.” She turned, left Buffy in the living room to head down said hall. The blonde followed, pausing long enough to deposit her jacket on a hanger before finding Primrose in the kitchen. The kettle was already on the stove and she was looking beneath the cabinets beside the sink when Buffy entered. 

Leaning against the counter across from the ex-Watcher allowed Buffy a clear view of what she dragged free of the shadowed contents of the cupboards. A few metal tins were already being placed along the counter and only one of them was labeled as being tea. “I never thanked you.” Primrose paused, turned to look towards Buffy who offered, “For helping me when I went all Slayer, interrupted. So… thanks.” 

Blue eyes settled on her, considering. “You’re welcome.” 

She turned back to the counter and reached for the cabinet above her head, pulling down a large jar filled with a smoky liquid. Buffy’s nose wrinkled at the sight of the murky substance and she stepped forward, moving to take a spot beside Primrose and lifted the jar. The contents swirled, forming a small black cloud and Buffy stiffened, hands tightening on the glass enough that she forced herself to put it down or risk breaking it. 

“Are there ways to ward off possession?” Buffy frowned and clarified, “Of the demonic variety.” 

Primrose stopped gather supplies and turned to look at her, searching her face as she stated, “There are.” 

“You wouldn’t happen to know of any, would you?” 

“I do.” Her head inclined, eyes narrowing. “There are symbols and some talismans that you can use.” 

“Cool.” Buffy turned back toward the counter and ignored Primrose’s suspicion with her random change in topics. She carefully avoided looking at the murky contents of the jar. “So how’d you survive the Rising of the Witnesses?” 

The change in topics wasn’t lost on the ex-Watcher, but she returned to her gathering and answered simply, “I remained in my office till my charge dissipated.” 

“Your charge?” Buffy’s flinched as understanding dawned, “Your Slayer?” Primrose gave an abrupt nod and Buffy closed her eyes and tried another subject. “So what are we doing here? How does one test for the divine spark?” 

Primrose opened one of the canisters on the counter and Buffy frowned at the small pile of ash in it. “With a mixture of hemlock, wormwood and gall.” 

Buffy nodded and then frowned. “What’s gall?”


	11. Her light and salvation.

Chapter 11: Her light and salvation.

A multiple-colored afghan shifted, Buffy rolling onto her back beneath it as her lashes fluttered, lifted and she frowned up at the unfamiliar ceiling. She sat up, the scratchy wool blanket pooling around her waist as she gazed around the family room that had been converted into storage of the weird and unusual—fitting that she’d slept in it.

Swallowing her sudden bout of self-pity Buffy shifted, letting her jean-clad legs ease off the couch to put her bare feet to carpet. A hand lifted, rubbing at the tired kinks in her neck and a yawn stretched her mouth, tongue lifting as her eyes watered. Buffy turned to the window, looked for the position of the sun with little luck through the gossamer drapes and leaned forward, snagging the cell phone she’d used to call Oz the night before, around two a.m., to let him know she wouldn’t be back to Angel’s. 

Her lips quirked at the missed text from Willow and her brows rose when she saw it was only eight in the morning—damn—they’d only gone to sleep four hours before. Another yawn blurred her vision and Buffy turned, looked at the flatten pillow beside her before giving up and leaning forward. Depositing her bag on the coffee table, she snatched one of the leather bound books Primrose had given her to look through for possible spells and symbols that would ward off possession. 

A line appeared between her brows as she flipped though the image filled pages, scanning for a symbol or marking that she might recognize from her time in hell. She hadn’t learned much, but she’d learned enough. Though she sincerely doubted fifty words of Latin were going to do her much good against a demon one on one and those words certainly wouldn’t help while trapped in her own body with one. Her hands paused, eyes narrowing on a pentacle surround by runic markings that formed an uninterrupted circle around it. 

Buffy turned her left wrist, rolling it away from the text beside the symbol to read the brief synopsis of its purpose and power. Her chin dipped, green eyes narrowing as Buffy glanced at the inside of her wrist and back to the page of the book. The symbol was a stark black against the off-white paper and Buffy continued to study the image as Primrose’s shuffled steps drew nearer until she filled the archway leading into the room. 

Her head remained down, still intently studying the image as she spoke aloud, “A tattoo.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

Buffy blinked, head rising and she watched Primrose enter the family room and make her way to the couch. She stood, turning the book around to show the ex-Watcher the image and asked, “If I got this as a tattoo. Would it keep me protected or not?” 

Weathered hands accepted the book, blue eyes focused on the image and it’s meaning as Primrose prompted, “Why a tattoo?”

“You can lose a charm. It could be taken from you or lost during a fight.” Buffy moved closer to Primrose, gazed down at the symbol. “You can’t lose a tattoo.” 

She nodded and turned a page, still reading the chapter’s contents. A heavy moment passed before her head lifted and a smile gathered at the corner of her eyes, wrinkling the paper-thin skin. “You’d have to get the fifth point position so that it pointed skyward.” 

“So up in other words. But it would work, right?” 

Her head cocked and Buffy’s hands came forward to clasp in front of her at the considering look she was being given. “It’s rather ingenious.” She shifted, easing onto the balls of her feet in surprise as Buffy watched the smile that had started in Primrose’s eyes finally spread to her mouth. “I think it would work smashingly.” 

“Cool.” 

“Indeed.” Primrose turned, motioned Buffy to follow with the book she held. “I was going to prepare some breakfast.” 

Buffy flinched, drew herself up straighter and winced when her knees protested the movement, sleeping with jeans on was so not conducive to blood flow and movement. “I’d like to. Really I would, but my friends are probably worried about me. I should get heading out.”

The older woman turned around, narrowed gaze taking in the dark circles under Buffy’s eyes and the slightly slumped set of her shoulders. Buffy rolled them back under Primrose critical eye and watched the smile return to her face. “Very well. Do you require transportation?” 

“Nah, I can call a cab.” 

A line appeared between her brows and she retook a step into the room, voice dropping in volume even with only the two of them present in her home. “Do you need money?” 

Buffy smiled, gaze falling to the brown leather satchel she’d tucked beneath the coffee table and shook her head. “I’m good on funds. Thanks though.” 

“Are you certain?” 

“Abso-positively,” she shrugged and added, “’sides I might stop and get that tat. I’d rather have it done sooner than later.” 

Primrose nodded and bent, snatching up one of the pieces of paper she’d been making notes with last night up and marked page with the symbol on it before closing it with a snap. The book was offered to Buffy one handed as she studied the table top. “I’d like to gather a few things. Books and such that might be of service to you.” Her head lifted, eyebrows raising as she prompted, “If you don’t mind?” 

“That would be great.” 

Buffy moved back to the couch and sat, tugging her sneakers from beneath the coffee table. She pulled her socks out of them and shook them out, watching as Primrose moved about the family room gathering books and a few small wooden boxes with ruins and markings carved along the varnished surfaces. She disappeared from the room as Buffy pulled on her socks then sneakers only to reappear a few minutes later with her hoodie draped over her arm and a duffle bag with its zipper straining to stay closed. 

Finely shaped brows arched and Buffy stood, accepting her hoodie and slipping it on before reaching for her phone. It slid into one of the front pockets of her jacket as Primrose lowered the duffle to settle directly in front of Buffy and straightened. She held out a small bound book, one handed again and Buffy inclined her head before accepting it.

The faded blue leather felt velvet soft in her hand and Buffy used both her hands to turn it over. A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth when she saw the author’s name, Lewis Carroll and the book’s title, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. She looked up, saw the careful study Primrose was once again subjecting her to and her smile widened. “You remembered.” 

“I strive to remember what’s important to all my patients.” A brow arched. “And you were once my patient, Buffy.”

“I was.” 

Her hands balled into small fists at her side, as if struggling against the urge to reach out and offer Buffy physical comfort as she added, “I cannot recreate the feeling of you being held in your father’s arms, but I thought this might help.” 

“It will.” Buffy pulled her arms into her chest and hugged the leather bound book close. “Thank you.” 

“You’re welcome.” She inclined her head. “Perhaps some tea before we call that cab?” 

“Sure.” Primrose turned to leave the room and Buffy took a step to follow her before prompting, “And maybe some pancakes?” 

The older woman paused and Buffy couldn’t ignore the pang of remorse at the grateful look directed her way before it was shielded by a neutral mask. “I do have the makings of them.” 

Hesitating a moment to tuck the book in the leather satchel caused Buffy to enter the kitchen and find a mixing bowl already set up and, true to her word, the makings of pancakes out as well. Buffy watched her controlled movements and wondered at Primrose’s brief moment of elation with the fact that she was staying for breakfast and settled on the simple fact that her ex-doctor, the ex-watcher was lonely. 

A possibly great idea, if it didn’t blow up in her face, formed and Buffy cleared her throat before testing the waters with, “So how do you feel about vampires with souls?”

~*~

Paper crinkled, the pages sliding against one another as Buffy turned them, skipping over the text to read the translations of the Sepher Ha-Razim—say that three times fast. She frowned, a line appearing between her brows as they drew together, not entirely certain she could say it once, let alone three. Shaking her head, Buffy refocused on the rather heretical book Primrose had give to her about Jewish magic that had _supposedly_ been written by the angel Raziel. The urge to text or call Willow about it made her fingers itch and Buffy used them, instead, to turn another page.

The seven sections of the book seemed to contain listings of angels and the instructions to perform one or more magical rites and magic definitely wasn’t her forte. This was more Willow’s area of expertise and green eyes rose from the text to gaze at the cell phone sitting on the small table next to the ottoman Buffy was currently sitting cross-legged on. She leaned forward, ignored the sudden burning at the base of her neck with the stretching of her shoulders as she snagged the cell. 

Pulling herself back up loosened the square gauze taped over the skin that itched and tingled as if she’d spent too much time in the sun and just that one small area had gotten burned. The space where neck spread into shoulders had become her stop-all for demonic possession—fingers crossed—and paying double the going rate at Incognito Tattoo had allowed her underage skin to be forever marked. Though not for the first time, but she didn’t count Ethan’s. 

He was an ass. 

Settling the phone against her ear and turning another page, Buffy waited for Willow to pick up and frowned down at the Hebrew currently filling her vision. She skimmed it from left to right, unsure what any of the signs actually meant and saw nothing familiar in the markings or their placement. A sigh passed her lips when Willow’s voicemail clicked on and she left her a brief message about the book and spelled the name of it rather than risk butchering it. 

Disconnecting the call and flipping the settings to camera Buffy took a quick picture of the front of the book and sent it to Willow just to make sure she got all the info correct. The doors leading into the subbasement of Angel’s apartment swept open and her head lifted, turning toward the sound with only small grimace of pain with the movement. Her brows rose with Angel’s rather intense scowl and Doyle’s more approachable grin as the duo moved down the wide hallway toward her. 

Pulling herself free of the ottoman, she paused in her upward movement to leave her cell and book on the table before straightening the drawstring pants hanging loose on her hips. The wide legs settled around her bare feet as she took a step back from the overstuffed excuse of a chair and Doyle sidestepped Angel’s taller and wider frame to present Buffy with a brightly colored gift bag. 

“A present for m’lady.” 

Her brows arched when he dipped into a bow and Buffy caught the bag on the downward swing. “What’s this?” 

“Just open it.” 

Angel’s growled words quirked Buffy’s mouth before she shrugged and pulled out the artfully arranged tissue paper and tucked it under her arm before frowning into the near empty bag. She tipped it onto its side, tapping out three slim pieces of plastic and laughed at the two driver’s licenses that claimed in both California and Nebraska that she was twenty-two and her name was Anne Thomas. 

The third bit of plastic was thinner, a laminated card that had a blue embossed eagle on the back, Buffy turned it and her brows rose, eyes widening at the sight of a fake Federal Bureau of Investigation ID. Whoever had created them had edit the picture Doyle had take of her, creating a swept back hair style that hugged her head and hid the length of her hair. Her mouth dried and she looked up, first to Angel and then to Doyle. “Are you nuts?” 

“Wha’?” He took a step closer, snagged the ID out of her hand and turned it towards the light. “There’s nothin’ wrong with it.” 

“Uh, yeah huh.” Buffy shook her head and motioned toward the bit of plastic in Doyle’s hands. “There’s so very many things wrong with that. Even outside the fact that it’s _extremely_ illegal.” She took a step back. “I can’t lie.” Buffy paused, head cocking before she added, “At least not well.” 

“So I’ll teach ya.” 

An abrupt noise escaped the back of her throat and even she was unsure if it was a laugh or a scoff. “You can’t teach that.” 

“Yes, you can.” Angel’s quiet voice drew her gaze and Buffy turned, looked to him and he offered her a tired smile. “You can lie, Buffy. You just don’t like to.” 

Her nostrils flared and she tapped down her instant retort and stared up at Angel. Knew he saw through it, saw through every mask she’d worn to protect her friends and herself. She swallowed and took back the FBI ID, ignoring the voice telling her Dana Scully she was _not_ and instead focused on the things she could control. Tucking the identifications back into the gift bag, Buffy turned, made her way back into the small library and lifted the leather satchel. 

The brass latch moved easily, opening the top and Buffy stepped back, motioned Angel towards it. “So fifty-fifty split work for you?” 

Doyle came forward, blue eyes widening when he saw the amount of money nestled in the bag and a low whistle escaped past his lips as Angel’s mouth thinned and he stated, “Keep it.” 

“Now Angel, let’s not be hasty.” 

He shot Doyle a glare for his interruption and shook his head. “You fought the Thesulac.” 

“Not much to fight really.” She shrugged, lifted her scarred shoulder and ignored Doyle’s gaze settling on it a moment too long. “Mass paranoia isn’t much of a power. It was massively annoying, but I’ve survived worse.” She ignored the narrowing of Angel’s eyes and prompted, “At least let me pay for the IDs.” 

“Okay.”

“No.” 

Angel frowned harder at Doyle before turning back to Buffy, his hand slipping into his pocket and she winced, took a step back from him. His body stilled, hand still buried in his pocket and he waited till her breathing settled before pulling a closed fist free and tossing a shiny object at her. Her hand rose, reflexive and smooth to catch the set of keys he tossed and frowned at them. Turning them over in her hand and narrowing her eyes on the wide-topped H imprinted on both keys pulled Buffy’s bottom lip downward. 

She lifted her head, presented her confused gaze to Angel and asked, “What’er these?” 

A familiar tugging at the corner of his mouth tightened her chest, reminded her of better times and Buffy moved forward when Angel stepped back and motioned her to pass him with a wave of his arm. Doyle made his way closer to the table holding the satchel and Angel glared. 

“Doyle,” his name was growled and the other man lifted his hands in the air and followed Buffy toward the stairs that led into the subbasement. 

Cold fingers pressed to the back of her neck, just above the gauze and Buffy paused, turned her head to look back at Angel and see his confused frown. “What happened?” 

She caught a bit of the tape and peeled it back, turned back around as she pulled the gauze and the back of her tank top down. Showed Angel and Doyle the symbol inked into her skin and felt another cold swipe of Angel’s fingers as he traced over the angry red skin surrounding the tattoo. “It’s for protection. Should keep me safe from—”

“Possession.” Both Buffy and Angel turned surprised faces on Doyle who shrugged. “I do know a thing or two about the dark arts and such.” 

“You never cease to amaze me.” 

Angel’s tone was mild, the insult implied, but not and Buffy smirked when Doyle shot him an affronted look before taking a step ahead of her and continued downward. He left the two of them in the dank and chilled staircase, surrounded by shadows and concrete. Buffy swallowed, glanced back the way they’d come before stating, “We should…” 

Her voice trailed off and Angel nodded, motioning her to lead the way as he took up the rear. Buffy ignored the sudden tremble to her hands with Angel at her back and willed it away, fought to ease the tension in her shoulders as she followed Doyle’s footsteps until they reached the underground parking center for the building and saw Doyle moving with a hurried stride toward Oz’s van. 

The werewolf eased around the back of said van and gave a small wave as Buffy slowed her stride and finished the last few yards in a casual stroll. It didn’t matter that Angel could smell her terror, or at least she kept telling herself that as he came to take the spot beside her. They eased their around the side of the van and she blinked at the black car with a large red bow wrapped around the hood.

“What’s this?” 

“A Civic.” Buffy shot Oz a look and he smiled, a shrug lifting his narrow shoulders. “The bus isn’t the only way to travel.” 

“Funny.” Her dry retort was overshadowed by the sudden realization, “This is sweet and all, but I don’t know _how_ to drive. No matter what those shiny new licenses say.” 

Oz’s chin dipped, hands slipping into his jean pockets. “We kinda figured that. So I’m gonna teach you.” 

“You are?” Buffy smiled and then shook her head. “You can’t. You have school tomorrow.” 

His brows rose. “I won’t miss much. Y’know, having been through senior year before and all.” 

Angel nodded, came to stand beside Buffy. “I still need to make a few adjustments.” 

Her head cocked, chin tilting back. “Adjustments?” 

“I want to make it more Slayer friendly.” 

A slow smile tugged at her mouth, spread her lips as Buffy turned her gaze back on the smooth lines of the vehicle. “You guys are the best.” 

“Tell me about it.” 

The sharp crack of Angel’s hand connecting soundly with the back of Doyle’s head drew a startled laugh from Buffy before she gave an excited hop and moved around to the driver’s side of the four-door car. The key slid in easily and she popped the locks before slipping into the driver’s seat and grinned. “It’s even got that new car smell!”


	12. Their Kingdom

Chapter 12: Their Kingdom

Wind struck the Civic, rocking the small vehicle as Buffy struggled back into her sweater and glanced at the leather jacket draped over the passenger seat before eyeing the ten or so feet between her car and the gas station entrance. The narrow frames of her sunglasses were pushed back, holding the front, layered sections of her hair back, bangs slipping free to rest against her forehead. She flicked at them with her free hand as the other reached for her cell and wallet, both slipping into the front pockets of her hoodie.

Claiming the keys to the car gave Buffy brief moment to steel herself before shoving the door open and spilling the chilled Minnesota wind in. Dipping her chin towards her chest she slammed the door, rocking the car and stumbled toward the automatic doors that slid open and she was soon enveloped in blissful warmth. Her cheeks burned and she ignored the tingling of her nose as she made her way through the overtly bright aisles toward the back wall filled with glass doors and drinks as far as the eye could see. 

_“Scooby Dooby Doo, where are you? We’ve got some work to do now. Scooby—”_ Her lips quirked as she reached into her jacket, snatched out her cell and cut the theme song off mid-verse. The smile spread when she saw Willow’s name and brought the speaker up to her ear before continuing her search for the perfect beverage and stated, “’ello.” 

“Buffy?” 

The metallic tint to Willow’s voice brought Buffy’s smile down a notch as she moved on from the Starbucks section and into Coke products. “Wills, how’s my favorite witch-y woman?” 

“G-good. All is good.” Buffy’s brows rose and she waited for the real reason behind Willow’s call as she looked through the vitamin waters. “So Oz mentioned you got a tattoo.” 

The gentle reproach in her best friend’s voice had Buffy smiling again as she explained, “To ward off possession.” She settled on a pomegranate-flavored water and turned, heading toward the aisle of junk food. “’Sides tattoos are in.” She paused, head cocking as she looked between the peanuts and beef jerky. “Tattoos are still in right?” 

“Buffy!” 

“What?” She bent, checking over the selection of Pringles. “It’s not like I haven’t had one before.” 

“Right, Ethan Rayne’s doesn’t count though. He was a poop-head.” An abrupt laugh escaped Buffy as Willow’s reasoning very much mirrored her own and she would have commented on it had the redhead given her enough time between subjects. “So how’s Minnesota? You did get into the state this morning?” 

Buffy nodded, realized belatedly Willow couldn’t _see_ the nod and responded with a chipper, “Yep. I’m just outside Grand Rapids.” 

“Does your head still hurt?” 

“No.” A line appeared between her brows and Buffy sighed. “All the front windows of Angel’s office need to be replaced though.” She lifted her head, glanced around the nearly empty gas station before lowering her voice and stating, “Castiel _needs_ to learn how to lower the volume.” 

Willow’s tone took on a snide tone as she groused, “And give you something other then just coordinates to go on.” 

“Longitude and latitude aren’t the most helpful of clues.” Buffy conceded and shrugged, settled on chicken jerky and a bag of corn chips before heading toward the cashier. 

“You don’t even know what you’re supposed to be doing there.” 

“I know.” Her shoulders dipped with a shrug as she settled her purchases on the counter and told Willow, “One sec,” as she watched the heavily-bearded clerk start to ring her up. He offered her a tired smile that she easily returned and the Willow side of the conversation stayed quiet as she paid and was thanked before heading back out into the wind. Her jaw tightened as she fought the sudden onslaught of chattering teeth and she hustled her way to her car, not speaking again till she had the car running and the heater on. “Back.” 

“I think I might have found a contact.” 

The newest change in subject had Buffy shaking her head again as she opened the water and took a quick sip before settling herself more comfortably in the driver’s seat. “A contact for what?” 

“You.” The certainty in Willow’s tone told Buffy the redhead was more then likely rolling her eyes. “I might have put up few questions on some of the techno pagan websites and a few archaic book discussions. I got a hit.” 

“Willow—”

“Don’t you _Willow_ me!” The bite to her interruption snapped Buffy’s mouth shut and she jerked back against the seat as Willow continued with, “I know how to stay anonymous. Who’s the net-girl here?” 

Buffy responded with a cautious, “You.” 

“Darn tootin’.” She paused, apparently gathering her thoughts because the next spill of words held more authority. “The responder seemed to know what they were talking about and I know their IP is based outta South Dakota. I plan to set up a new email address so that I can start a more private correspondence.”

Taking a deep breath Buffy tensed as she asked, “Are you sure that’s a good idea?” 

There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end and Buffy flinched before Willow stated, her voice soft, “They knew about the Rising of the Witnesses.” 

Her shoulders sagged. “Well that’s promising,” Buffy frowned, “Or frightening, depending on how you look at it.” 

“They pointed me to over twenty different coroner’s reports with the same cause of death. Hearts torn from chests, but in more scientific terms.” Her softened, turned sympathetic as she explained, “Like Ford tried to do to you.” 

“I remember,” _and like Celia_ , Buffy added silently to herself as she looked out the windshield, stared at the panoramic windows covering the front of the building in front of her and closed her eyes, let her head fall back against the head rest. “You’re being safe with the cross state lines hacking right?” 

There was a heavy pause before Willow offered, “Yeah.” 

Buffy’s frowned deepened and she backed off—for now—and settled for asking, “So this new friend might be able to help?” 

“I think so.” 

“So go for it.” She opened her eyes, stared up at the crème-colored roof and added tiredly, “I could use all the help I can get.” 

“I’m here.” 

Willow’s instant retort forced Buffy to lift her head, resume her study of the outside world and smile. “You are.” 

“The entire gang is behind you one hundred and ten percent.” A devilish pitch slipped into Willow’s next words. “And Oz is behind you. Along with those pesky stop signs.” 

“Hey!” Buffy narrowed her eyes. “Those things come out of nowhere.” 

“Didn’t Oz say ‘stop sign’?” 

“Only twice!”

“And yet you still ran it.” 

Buffy’s mouth dropped open for a moment before she snapped, “Harlot!” 

A strangled gasp spilled from Buffy’s cell phone before Willow argued, “Bad seed!” 

“Witch!” 

“Zombie!” 

Buffy snorted, she couldn’t help it. “I’m hanging up now.” 

“Talk to you later!” 

“Yeah, yeah.” The smile that stretched wide across Buffy’s face was genuine and happy, the corner of her eyes gathering as she disconnected the call and put the cell in the cup holder next to her water. 

The seatbelt crossed her chest before clicking home and Buffy opened the chicken jerky, settling it in her lap, before sliding the car into reverse and backing away from the gas station. She turned the Civic back onto the highway, sunglasses settling back across the bridge of her nose as sunlight spilled across her dashboard and she popped a piece of teriyaki flavored jerky into her mouth. The sweet taste distracted her from the uneasy felling in the pit of her stomach as she guided the car away from Grand Rapids and toward the little town called Deer River.

~*~

Twenty-four miles of paved road that gradually narrowed from four lanes down to two led Buffy into the small town of Deer River. Dirt and gravel driveways began to pop up along Route Six and the speed limit dropped to thirty without warning—as far as Buffy could tell—and she found herself easing up on the gas. Small, low lying buildings began to fill her windshield and her brows rose over the frames of her sunglasses when the Civic passed by several boarded up shops.

Wood covered the large paneled windows and the car slowed to a crawl before Buffy slipped into one of the parking spaces set up along, what she assumed, was the main street of the town. Snagging her jacket she eased out of the car and slid the leather up her arms and settled it over the semi thin material of her hoodie. After locking the car, cell and keys slipped into random pockets on her person and she eased away from her haphazard parking job and onto the sidewalk. 

Cold hands rose, adjusted the hood of her jacket over the outside of her coat and for the moment she didn’t care _what_ Cordelia would say about the mismatched outfit. She was damn cold. Sliding her hands into the coat’s pockets helped some as Buffy walked along the store fronts, grateful she’d worn jeans instead of the more comfortable cotton slacks she’d bought while in Los Angeles. The wind picked up, stirring her hair and Buffy clenched her jaw against the cold and ducked her head. 

She paused at a crosswalk, looked up and around at the few shops that still seemed to be open and noted a diner to her right, a few people dotted the inside and smoke curled up from the low roof. The barely settled chicken jerky made itself known and Buffy winced as her stomach growled, asking for something more substantial. Her gaze flicked from side to side before she followed the urgings of her body across the street at a jog and eased her way into the warmth of the diner. 

A waitress looked up from her place behind a long counter top and offered Buffy a smile, “Well hello there.” She motioned to the entire dining area before stating, “Have a seat wherever you like.” 

The rounded O's of her speech made Buffy smile and she nodded before taking a spot along the wall near the door. An older patron glanced up and over at Buffy, gave her a careful study before returning to his bowl of something or other. She wasn’t sure what it was, but it was thick and had a slice of melting butter on the top of it. Shaking her head Buffy shrugged out of her jacket and placed on the chair beside her. 

A shadow crossed her form and she looked up, offered the waitress a smile that reached her eyes as she put down a one page, laminated menu in front of her. “Hello again. I’m Robyn and what can I get you to drink?” 

Buffy hesitated, warm sounded good, before requesting, “Coffee.” 

“Be right back.” Robyn nodded, short brown hair bobbing with the movement as she spun on sneaker covered feet and moved back behind the counter. Buffy looked down and over the menu, brows rising with the simplicity of it and quickly made her selections before looking back up, taking in the muted yellow and browns that made up the wallpaper and tables. 

The basic set up of the diner was no different, or better, then any she’d ever been in when she was little and had gone road on trips with her parents. When she’d still been young enough to see the adventure of the open road and the cheesy roadside attractions had thrilled her to no end. Joyce had kept wipes handy during those stops since Buffy, even as a child—and even more so as a teenager—tended to get into _everything_. Regardless of how small she’d been for her age or what Joyce had dressed her in, Buffy had managed to climb her way into more trouble then the average kid. 

The ceramic cup in front of her was turned over and Buffy shook her head, looked up at Robyn as she poured steamy coffee from pot to cup. “Regular right?” 

Heavily lined eyes flicked to Buffy and the waitresses smile turned a bit warmer. “Honey, we don’t serve decaf. That’s a sin.” She nodded toward the menu on the table in front of her. “Ready or do you need a few?” 

“Oh.” Buffy lifted the menu, handing it back to her and asked, “Can I get a BLT, coleslaw and an order of fries?” 

“Sure can.” She made a few, quick marks on a spiral notepad and then lifted her head, “Did you want a water too? Coffee and a BLT don’t always go hand in hand.” 

Buffy smiled and nodded. “That would be great.”

Her waitress moved away from her and the Scooby Doo theme filled the restaurant. Buffy ducked her head, fought the blush filling her cheeks and scrambled with her pockets to locate the cell and silence it. Her thumb jabbed at the buttons along the side and blissful quiet followed as she put it on silent and turned it over, smirking at the random text from Faith, _‘Bored as shit! What R U up 2?’_ and winced at the horrible grammar that always took her a moment or two to decipher. 

Shooting her fellow Slayer a response took up a few moments of wait time and Buffy looked up as Robyn placed a glass of water and a small plate filled with lemon slices down in front of her. “Thanks.”

“Welcome.” 

The corners of her mouth dipped when Faith’s newest text flashed on screen, _‘Why Minnesota?’_ as Robyn turned away. Buffy nodded, good question and called out, “Robyn?” The waitress turned back to her, head inclined and Buffy prompted, “You wouldn’t happen to have a local newspaper would you?” 

“There’s some right over there by the entrance. Help yourself.” 

“Thanks.” 

She stood, leaving her cell phone and coat behind for the moment to snag a copy. The front entrance opened, spilling in a blast of cold air to combat the warmth that had finally settled over Buffy and she turned back, caught sight of another woman entering the diner, closer to her own age then Robyn’s and her own height—huh. 

With a shrug Buffy reclaimed her seat and responded to Faith’s text before opening and turning to the paper only to frown down at the front page. The headline was simple, ‘Local Farms Suffering,’ although the picture beneath it was anything but and the sight of malnourished cattle wasn’t the best of the things to look at while attempting to eat. 

Buffy reached for her coffee, sipped at the still too hot to drink liquid and resettled it on the Formica table top before refocusing on the article and the information that animals, farm and wild, were dying without rhyme or reason. Super. She opened flipped the paper to read the bottom section and glanced at her cell, saw Faith’s newest thought of, _‘UR angel blows.’_

A laugh escaped her and she glanced up and around, no one was paying her much attention as the older guy from the counter paid and left. Leaving Buffy and the newest edition as the only patrons and Buffy took a moment to study her. Long dark hair hung in loose waves, well past narrow shoulders covered by a priest collared leather jacket that had seen better days. The brunette looked up when Robyn dropped off a tall soda and ordered an oversized plate of fries, Buffy shook her head and went back to checking over the newspaper. 

The obituaries seemed a bit many for a town that barely reached nine hundred in population and Buffy sighed, realizing she had to find the local library to do more research after she located a motel. Her nose wrinkled, she’d much rather sleep in nicer places, but the small, out of the way locations asked less questions and didn’t require a credit card for expense purposes. 

She looked up when Robyn made her way back to her table and dropped off the BLT and coleslaw with the promise, “Fries’ll be out shortly.” 

“Thanks.” Gross pictures forgotten, Buffy dug in. Happily surprised by the fact that the sandwich was good and the coleslaw only needed a little pepper from the shaker on the table to make it very close to great. True to her word, Buffy was only halfway through the sandwich when the fries came out for both her and the other girl. Wiping at her mouth, Buffy thanked Robyn before asking, “Could you recommend a good place to stay at?” 

Her brows rose and she paused, a hand coming up to rest on her hip as she gave Buffy a once over. “Sure. There’s the Gosh Dam Place up by Lake Winnie.” 

Green eyes widened with the name of the establishment, but Buffy managed to tamper down her snort of amusement. “Nowhere in town?” 

“Nowhere I’d recommend.” Robyn corrected with a smile before offering, “It’s only about ten minutes outside of Deer River. Just stay on six and you’ll come right to their front door.” 

Her own head bobbed as Buffy nodded her thanks and Robyn spun away from her again. Buffy snatched up the red container labeled ketchup and sprinkled her fries with it before snagging one. She smiled even as it burned her tongue and reached for the water, promising herself to locate the library right after she ate and the Gosh Dam Place—her smile widened—right after that. 

A weight settled on Buffy shoulders and the crown of her head and she finished another fry before looking up, caught the other girl watching her intently and raised a brow. Brown eyes did a careful study of her face before, without a word or change of expression, they lowered back to the plate of fries in front of her. Buffy frowned at the nagging feeling that made the edge of her healed tattoo itch and she shrugged off the sensation before turning back to her meal and the paper.


	13. Gosh Dam Place

Chapter 13: Gosh Dam Place

_‘No way’_

_‘Way’_

_‘You did not wrestle an alligator.’_

_‘Sure did B’_

_‘You’re nuts.’_

_‘Im not the one hearin angels’_

_‘Jerk’_

_‘Bite me’_

_‘You’d like it too much.’_

_‘Damn right’_

An abrupt and loud laugh escaped Buffy, forcing her to clamp a hand over her mouth, eyes flicking around the small library. Newspapers from the previous months, from a rather impressive archive, were scattered across the large table Buffy had claimed and a spiral notebook, she’d grabbed from Willow’s before she’d left Sunnydale, sat beside her and was filled with her notes and random thoughts. She responded to Faith’s newest text with a multi-explanation-ed _‘Ew,’_ before turning to the next newspaper. 

Her brows tugged together when she noticed another broken up fight in the police beat section and made a note. There had been two arrests and one person taken to the hospital with non-life threatening injuries and apparently the newest hash of altercations and violence were taking their toll on the town. With each newspaper Buffy went through, more and more businesses had announced their closing and some of the families that had been in Deer River since the town was established over a hundred years before were uprooting and looking toward greener pastures—or less brutal ones. 

The death of pets also seemed bizarre and uncalled for in her, not so humble, opinion and Buffy turned away from the newspapers to look over her notes. Green eyes narrowed as she read down her list of starved livestock and pets that had, according to owners, eaten everyday until their demise. The seemingly random acts of violence and an overabundance of deaths with a few from unexplained sickness were listed in the obituaries and in the byline of a local.

Buffy glanced at her cell phone and debated calling Willow this early in the afternoon. Faith didn’t have school so text wars were all fine and non-issue filled as far as Buffy was concerned, but Willow liked school. She gnawed at her bottom lip a moment before snagging the cell and dialing Willow, hoping against hope she kept it on silent while in the class room, if she was in one. It sprang to voicemail and Buffy’s shoulders dipped as she quickly rattled off her list of weird and begged Willow to call her back as soon as possible. 

With one last quick, jab-like text sent to Faith, Buffy stood and began to gather the newspapers she’d collected into a neat pile and pulled on her coat before shutting her notebook. Her cell slid into her pocket of said coat and hung it crooked as she picked up her pile and notebook before heading to the front desk and the librarian that had both looked at her funny and had been beyond helpful. Dropping off the newspapers, as requested, and giving her very heartfelt thanks Buffy made her way back out into the cold Minnesota air, thankful she’d moved her car to the library parking lot before going inside. 

Holding the notebook tight to her chest, she jogged to the car, wincing as the brief moment of accelerated movement did little to alleviate the cold wind wiping around and through her hair. Her brows dipped at the sight of an orange muscle car parked beside her own with a black racing stripe easing up from between the headlights and snaking over the hood to stop at the tinted windshield. Buffy shrugged and eased her keys out of a pocket and unlocked the driver’s door before sliding inside the Civic and out of the cold wind. 

She rocked the car with the slamming of her door and Buffy winced, trying to remember to not slam the door and rattle the window pane. Silently berating herself that it wouldn’t be cheap, or warm, if she broke the window and could no longer close it as she backed out of the parking space and eased her way off the lot. The main street was still nearly vacant of life, but a few teenagers were skateboarding around the boarded up shops as Buffy made her way through Deer River and back onto six, hoping Robyn’s directions were decent. 

The sun was low on the horizon, blocked by the high pine trees lining the road as Buffy slipped further away from civilization and a brown sign told her Lake Winnie Park was only fifteen miles ahead. Pale lips spread into a smile as she followed the signs leading her toward the lake and probably toward her destination. Her cell phone vibrated in the front pocket of her jacket, but she ignored it for the moment, having learned her lesson in Nevada that driving and talking, or text-ing, were unmixable things for her. 

Her eyes widened behind her sunglass when a large sign with a fish of some kind on it told her she’d arrived at the Gosh Dam Place. Her mouth twisted in a self-deprecating way as she pulled into the paved parking lot and eased her car into a spot in front of the lobby doors. The sun shined off the high placed windows along the narrow building, making them appear black as she slipped out of her car and headed inside. 

A teenager greeted her and Buffy inclined her head as she wiped her feet on the worn welcome mat before stepping onto the tiled floor. A large jacket hung open, exposing a silk-screened tee-shirt covered in skulls and nautical stars as the guy rose, grey-green eyes taking in her appearance and possible age before a slow smile spread his mouth and Buffy resisted the urge to roll her eyes. 

“Need a room?” 

Swallowing the need to give the waspish response of, ‘perceptive,’ Buffy shook her head and instead returned his smile and answered with, “Sure do.” 

“How many nights?” 

She moved to the counter and shrugged her shoulders as she reached for her wallet. “I’m not entirely sure yet. How ‘bout I start with just two nights and we go from there.” 

He grinned. “Yeah, okay,” and turned toward the computer set up in front of him. “Name?” 

“Anne Thomas,” the lie slid easily past her lips and this time Buffy didn’t flinch or avert her gaze as she pulled out the ID that stated she was from Nebraska and handed it to the teenager across from her. 

“Okay, Anne.” He typed in a few sections on the computer and turned, snatched a key off the board behind him and asked, “Did you want to pay for both nights up front or just the one?” 

“Both nights.” 

He nodded, hit another key and stated, “That’ll be eighty-three sixty.” 

After accepting back her ID and handing him the cash, Buffy took a moment to put the license back into her wallet, in front of the California one, as he made change. He presented her with the money back and a key, taking a moment to let her know there was a restaurant attached to the motel and they gave a discount to guests. 

Nodding and offering her thanks, Buffy pocketed the change before turning and making her way back out into the cold. She moved her car to park in front of the door labeled sixteen, the same as her key, and took a moment to gather her bags from the back seat before letting herself into the room. She paused in the opened doorway, brows sliding together at the sight of the beige carpet and white walls with a wooden stripe going around the center of them. With a shrug of her shoulders she crossed the threshold and kicked the door closed behind her—it was clean and she was tired of driving. 

Dropping her bags on the beds she brought out her cell and saw Willow’s missed call. Not bothering to listen to her voicemail, she instead just called her back and shrugged out of her jacket. She added that to her pile on the bed and sat, looked at her reflection in the tube television as the phone rang twice and on the third Willow picked up. 

“Buffy?” 

“Hey, Willow.” 

“Hey,” Buffy heard the muffled sound of keys being hit before Willow added, “I got your voicemail and I’ve already started digging into the town’s online records.” 

“Anything different from what I got?” 

“No, not really.” There was a sigh and then another flurry of key hitting. “I’m going to send some of this to that guy I was talking to you about.” 

Buffy frowned at her reflection before lifting a foot onto the bed and untying one of Willow’s boots. “What guy?” 

“The one from the online board.” 

Her brows rose as she eased off the first boot and placed it down on the floor before turning to the other one. “You already started the email thing? Willow, you only told me about this guy four hours ago.” 

“I know.” Her voice sounded defensive and Buffy’s eyes narrowed, but before she could comment Willow added, “I’ve only sent three emails.” 

“Three?” 

“One of them was for you!” 

Buffy sighed and tugged off the other boot. “Yes, I know and I’m grateful. I’m just nervous. The last guy you talked with online turned out to be a demon, remember?” 

“I remember,” she could hear the pout in Willow’s response. “But I’m being extra careful. I swear.” 

“I know.” 

“Okay, so Bobby—”

Buffy interrupted, “So his name isn’t Malcolm?”

“Buffy!” 

“A girl’s allowed to be nervous.” 

“Not about this.” Willow sighed again and Buffy felt a smile tug at her lips as her best friend continued, “So Bobby had some good insights into what rose the witnesses and I really wish you had a computer. It’d be easier to share information.” 

“It would.” Buffy glanced around the room. “I mean, I even have WiFi in _this_ place.” 

Willow’s voice turned curious. “Where are you?” 

“Gosh Dam Place.” 

Her deadpanned reply was followed by a peal of laughter on Willow’s end and Buffy rose, turning back to the bed and began to rearrange her bags. The nylon bag she’d picked up in Los Angeles and kept under the driver’s seat was tugged toward her and she unzipped it, looked through the neat stacks of twenties, fifties and hundreds that lined it. She had over nine thousand dollars on her and had left a little under thirty with Angel—against his insistence—sure she needed cash, but caring around that much was just asking for problems. 

Flipping through a stack of fifties Buffy offered to the still giggling Willow, “I could pick up a laptop.” 

There was a snort on the other end of the line that shook Buffy’s head as Willow asked, between gasps, “Are you sure?”

“Sure, I’m sure.” She dropped the stack of fifties back into the bag and zipped it before reaching for her duffle. “I’ll get one after we figure out what’s going on here. It’ll give me an excuse to swing by the Mall of America.” 

“Like you needed a reason.” 

“It’s nice to have one.” Buffy grinned before prompting, “So tell me more about this Bobby and his apparent wisdom.”

~*~

The mound of sheets and comforter shifted, stretched out as Buffy’s legs straightened and she rolled onto her back. Her face scrunched, nose wrinkling before a yawn stretched her jaw, mouth opening wide and she blinked up at a tiled ceiling. Pupils dilating as she blinked away tired tears and sat up, kept the comforter between herself and the chilled morning air that had settled in the motel room.

A muffled sound slipped her hand beneath the pillow she’d slept on, fingers wrapping around the handle of a knife as the sound started again and her shoulders tightened before they relaxed and she laughed. Sliding out the ceremonial knife Dormer had given her, she turned her body and eased the comforter down around her waist. Cold chased goosebumps up her exposed arms as she rolled onto her side, careful of the blade, to pick up her hoodie from the floor and see her cell phone still chanting about Scooby Doo. 

Another yawn lifted her tongue up as she snatched the offending contraption and glared at the fact that the corner of the screen said it was only nine in the morning. Her brows pulled together when she saw it was Willow calling and jabbed the answer button before growling, “’ello?”

“Buffy? Did I wake you?” 

She brought her legs up to sit cross-legged beneath the warm mound of sheets bundled at her waist and placed the knife on her lap. Her now free hand came up to rub at her eyes as she responded with, “Just a little,” dropping her hand away from her face she blinked several times and clarified, “Didn’t I just hang up with you?” 

“That was six hours ago.” The gentle chide in Willow’s voice brought Buffy’s back up, but the redhead was already moving on with the conversation. “I got a response from Bobby.” 

“That couldn’t have waited another two hours?” 

Willow sighed. “Buffy, I’ll be in school in two hours.” 

“Right,” she yawned, not bothering to cover her mouth or the muffle the sound before adding, “So fill me in.” 

“Well…” she trailed off and Buffy frowned, waited for Willow to grab onto a train of thought as she fiddled with the knife’s serrated edge. “Bobby has some ideas.” 

The hesitancy in her voice lifted Buffy’s head from her lap and she looked over her reflection—she _needed_ to kill the cat on her head—in the television across from her before prompting, “And those ideas would be?” Willow’s whispered response pulled Buffy’s brows together and she glared at her reflection. “What? Gotta speak from the diaphragm, Will.” 

“Four horsemen!” 

Buffy blinked, gaze dropping from the television to her lap, stared at the blade resting there. “I’m gonna need a bigger knife.” 

Her absent reply spurned Willow into speaking normal, “Huh? What?” 

“Nothing.” Shaking her head Buffy leaned over and put the knife on the side table holding the room’s only light source, a small lamp, and an alarm clock. Pushing the sheets and comforter away from herself, Buffy slid her legs over the side of the bed and winced at the cold that wrapped its way over her bared skin. “So the four horsemen, huh?” 

“As in the apocalypse.” 

“Did this Bobby happen to mention how to, I don’t know, kill them?” 

“Exorcise them.” 

Her brows rose as she stood and arched her back, tight muscles relaxing with the movement before she took a halting step forward and asked, “Which one?” 

“What do you mean?”

A hand rose to rub at the back of her neck as she moved closer to the bathroom and the glass of water she’d left beside the sink. “There’s more than one way to exorcise a demon.” 

“I know that.” Buffy could hear Willow’s frown as she continued, “How do you know that?” 

Her brows rose with the unintentional, but still implied, insult of Willow’s words and she hit the light switch. Eyes snapping shut against the sudden onslaught of light as she offered, voice dry, “Thanks.”

“I didn’t mean it that way,” there was a pause and then Willow conceded, “Okay, maybe I meant it a little that way.” 

A snort shook her shoulders and Buffy opened her eyes, glared at the side of her head that looked like raccoons had nested there and reached for the glass of warm water. Dumping the contents she turned the tap to cold and ran it a few seconds before placing the cup under the flow. “Uh huh, okay. Moving on now, right?”

“Right,” Willow snapped back and then shifted into concerned mode, “Bobby didn’t say what kind, but he did offer help.” 

She turned off the faucet and took a sip of not entirely yummy water. Making a sour face, Buffy turned to leave the bathroom, still holding the water and prompted, “Help? As in?”

“As in backup.”

Buffy shook her head and groused, “Let’s not call the calvary just yet.” 

“Buffy—”

“Willow, we don’t even _know_ this Bobby.” Buffy snapped back and added, “If he’s legit. If he’s even human.” She ignored Willow’s exasperated breath and trudged onward. “I’ll look around town. Do some more research and if it’s squicky I’ll let you go all mother hen.”

“And if you end up dead?” 

The sarcasm in her voice tugged a smile onto Buffy’s face. “You get to say I told you so.” 

“To who?” 

Her brows rose and she took a moment to take another sip of foul tasting water. The bitter liquid slipped over her tongue and down her throat, calming the twisting feeling she was getting in her stomach. “I’ll be fine.” 

“Says you.” 

“Exactly. Says me.” 

“I don’t like this.” 

The worry filling Willow’s voice dropped Buffy’s shoulders and she placed the glass of water onto the television before stating, “I’m gonna be fine. Have a little faith.” 

“I’ve got enough. Thanks.” The bite in her words and their meaning was eased by the sigh that followed. “I’m gonna go. I need to finish getting ready for school.” She paused, hesitated a beat before whispering, “Be careful.” 

“Always.” 

The mattress gave a groan of protest as she sat and disconnected the call. She stared at the smudged screen a moment before wiping clean it with her thumb and dropped it beside her on the bed. Propping her elbows on her knees and dropping her head into her hands, Buffy shut her eyes tight and wondered if a prayer would help. White teeth sank into her bottom lip and she lifted her head, caught sight of her reflection again and winced. 

Forgoing the prayer—for now—Buffy pushed herself onto her feet and shuffled her way to the bathroom to take a quick, hot shower and pep herself up for searching through the small town of Deer River. Whether this Bobby was legit, or not, didn’t change the fact that the four horsemen concept just sat right for what was going on with the town. Random, unexplainable acts of sickness, violence, starvation and death—damn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: This story was originally written in 2008 so the season 5 plotline of Supernatural involving the four horsemen hadn't taken place yet. Though I will have an explanation of the existence of both in later stories. 
> 
> Also: Thank you for reading!


	14. Deliver us from evil.

Chapter 14: Deliver us from evil.

Blunt nails tugged at the hem of the brown tank top, pulling it over the waistline of her faded hip huggers before Buffy reached for the cotton ribbed sweater. The navy fabric stretched its way over her high ponytail and head, settling against her slight frame and hugging her upper body. Her hands rose, smoothing the few flyaways the sweater had tugged from her ponytail as she ignored the nagging doubt telling her she might be in over her head and Willow’s texts voicing the same concern.

Her research had proven fruitless in confirming or denying the possible presence of the four horsemen, but she had narrowed the list to a few likely places for them to have bunkered down. There was a stretch of road that just happened to be smack dab in the center of the town’s chaos, and random acts of dead animals, with only four houses on it. It wouldn’t hurt—anyone other than herself—to check out said street and see what’s the what. Buffy sat and bent at the waist, snagged her new, yet to be worn boots, and tugged them on. 

Welcomed the feel of leather cupping her calves again after too long as she stood and shook out the legs of her jeans, straightened them before snatching her car and room keys and heading outside. The temperature had risen since yesterday, but fifty-seven was still not the warmest of warms and Buffy gritted her teeth, refusing to destroy the nifty leather jacket Cordelia had bought her. _It_ would stay safe inside her motel room. 

The late afternoon sun was barely making itself known through the tall pines lining the property of the Gosh Dam Place as Buffy jogged over to the driver’s side of her Civic and opened the door leading into the backseat. Her gaze lifted, glanced around the empty parking lot before she dipped inside and snagged the circular bit of cloth that allowed the backseat to be lowered and make the trunk bigger—well—bigger if Angel hadn’t made her car Slayer friendly. 

Instead the backseat folded down to reveal the protective markings she and Oz had sketched on the corners of the plywood backing the seat. Spread across that same plywood was an assortment of knifes and their holders, ranging from three to thirteen inches overall and her fingers traced over the few iron clad blades Angel had been able to find. She turned from the knives, directing her gaze into the area of the trunk that she could see, and was surrounded by the same plywood with similar markings spread across them. 

The outside of the three by two foot section she was currently searching through looked like a speaker box when seen from the open trunk, but from her view it was filled with the best toys ever. She grabbed the oak lockbox Angel had helped her create to hold her more valuable possession and turned the carved wood towards her to push the latch to the side, popping the top. 

Buffy smiled at the inside of the lid and the symbol burned into the wood that would keep demons and other nasties from opening it before she shuffled through the few papers scattered across the bottom. Her fingers brushed aside a smoothed chip of quartz before settling on the beaten flask Doyle had give her and pulled it out, tucked it into a back pocket of her jeans. Her next stop was the felt satchel Willow had created for her and quickly looped it around her neck before closing the lid and pushing the box back into its corner. Buffy straightened and snatched two blades, and their sheaths, before flipping the backseat up and easing her way out of the car. 

Her hip connected with the door, slamming it before she moved to the trunk and opened it. She smirked at the non-functioning speaker box before dipping her gaze to the duffle that housed Primrose’s supplied reading and the few bags of salt and jugs of water lining the rest of the trunk-space. Her fingers wrapped around the edge of one of the smaller bags, if she needed a larger one she was so very screwed, and lifted it free along with a water jug before closing the trunk hard enough to rock the car. 

“Damn.” She patted the offended metal. “I’ll learn to be gentle. Promise.” Her brows pulled together when Buffy realized she was talking, out loud, to an inanimate object, or herself, and neither of those were a good sign—if only Primrose could see her now. 

With a shake of her head she backed away from the car and headed toward her motel room, resisting the urge to give the Civic one last look, or worse, promise to be right back. Letting herself into the room, Buffy paused just long enough to kick the door shut. She turned, dropped the salt bag on the sad excuse of a table the motel supplied and winced when it wobbled under the additional weight as she set the jug beside it. 

Her mouth twisted upward as she pulled out the flask and took a seat in the chair closest to the door. Her movements were slow and gentle as she added the weight of the two knives and their holders to the table. When it stayed upright she turned and bent, tugging the jug closer and unscrewed the blue cap, still confused as to the hows of Angel, a vampire, having a holy water supply. She brought the flask forward and frowned down at the small cap and smaller opening before snagging the jug and heading toward the bathroom. 

“Note to self. In need of funnel.” She winced, pausing halfway to the bathroom and sighed—she _really_ needed to stop talking to herself. 

Keeping her internal thoughts internal, Buffy made her way into the bathroom and used the sink to catch the excess as she filled Doyle’s flask with holy water in silence, blessed or not. She returned to the table and the bag of salt and recapped the jug. Unrolling the salt bag, she added a pinch into the flask before putting the top back on and placing it beside the knife sheathes. 

Green eyes narrowed on the bag of salt and then shifted to the longer iron clad blade she’d chosen for tonight’s romp. Her nose wrinkled before she ignored the salt and simply sheathed the knife and stood, attaching the holder to her belt. The smaller knife had a snubbed-nosed that twisted upward into a wicked looking hook, it was sharper than the iron and so much smaller, but she was certain she could do the same amount of damage, if not more, with that blade. 

If only demons had as an adverse a reaction to steel as they did to iron. Her head dipped, ponytail coming forward to rest against her neck as she lifted her left leg and rolled up her jeans, hooking the sheath on the outside of her boot. She twisted the holder so that she could simply reach up and pull down on the handle to free the knife and took a moment to latch it in place so it wouldn’t fall before dropping her leg down and straightening. 

Running her hands down the side of her sweater to smooth it, Buffy turned back to the room and glanced around the near disorder and shrugged. “I’ll clean up as soon as I get back.” Her eyes snapped shut, head falling back. “You’ve gotta stop this.” 

She sighed and grabbed her cell, promising herself, silently, to call Willow as soon as she was done with her recon with the hopes of no confrontations. Her keys jingled as she exited the motel room and moved with an unhurried stride toward her car. She slid into the driver’s seat, depositing the cell in one of the cup holders and the motel key in the other. 

The engine purred to life and she clicked the heater on before backing up and heading out of the parking lot. She made it back into town as the sun was slipping behind the horizon and turned the cloudless sky violet. Buffy hesitated, foot coming off the gas as she came upon the stop sign—take that Oz—near the middle of town and the diner. 

The brake sank toward the floorboard as she looked right then left and eased the Civic forward and past the diner and into the ten minutes or less it took to get to the other side of town. She followed route six till her headlights illuminated the sign for Walsh and she eased her way onto it, thankful it was paved and followed the street down another two miles till she hit Haven and passed it. 

She turned around, headlights flooding the trees around her with light as she performed a not so perfect K-turn and winced when she hit the gravel along the edge of the road. She drove back toward Haven before she eased the Civic off the road and parked, cutting the lights and slipping out of the car. Pine needles crunched under her boot heels and she ignored it, stepping back to close the door and lock the car before making her way toward the street as the sky darkened, night falling behind her. 

The first two houses were dark, dust and film coating the windows on the inside, leading Buffy to believe no one, or nothing, had set up shop in them. She made her way further down the street, the trees growing thicker and deeper, and Buffy switched to the left side of the road. The third house was set further back, a car parked in the driveway and lights on in the front windows. A line appeared between her brows as she made her way closer, studying the two story home, the upper half was dark, curtains drawn, but as she drew nearer she could hear the roar of manufactured laughter. 

Her right hand went to the knife holder at her waist, ignoring the voice in the back of her head telling her it was probably just family time and kept her hand hovering over the handle as she moved swiftly through the front yard. She ducked around the porch and found herself unable to look in the front window without being seen. A muttered curse escaped her as she moved along the edge of the house and toward the back, still not absolutely sure what she was looking for even as she searched for another window. 

She found one at the very back of the house, where an entire corner of it had been turned into paneled glass looking out on an expansive backyard. Her feet crossed, easing one before the other as she inched along the side of the stucco home and paused at the edge of the window. She took a deep breath before balancing herself with one hand against the house to take a quick look. 

She frowned at the sight of a woman of average height and build, if a bit pretty, flipping through a newspaper and sipping from a beer. Shaking her head Buffy slipped back behind the window’s edge and took a step away from the house, the edge of her tattoo tingled, began to itch and she sighed, wondering if the outline was going to have to be redone. 

“Can I help you?” 

She stiffened, hands balling into fists at her sides as she turned, saw a teenager giving her a confused, if amused smile as he stepped forward, closer to her and the window. His head cocked, blonde bangs sliding to the side as his smile widened and Buffy lifted her hand, gave him a halfhearted wave. “Hi there.”

His gaze followed the movement and then slid sideways across her chest and Buffy ignored the urge to glare since she was the one trespassing. Blue eyes focused on a spot between her breasts and her brows rose before she glanced down, saw Willow’s satchel hanging there and swore. “Dammit.” 

The handle of the knife filled her hand and she looked up before freeing it to find the teenager’s head lifting and he was sending her a confused look and then Buffy did something beyond stupid, she hesitated. He took a step closer, right arm crossing in front of his body and Buffy back peddled, nearly tripping in the tall grass. His arm lifted, arching in front of him and she had a moment to frown, since—hello—they were still a good five feet apart. 

Then it hit her. 

What the _it_ was Buffy wasn’t entirely sure, but her body was airborne, careening toward the house and into the paneled corner window. The glass buckled, folding inward and spilling Buffy across the table. Her back struck the wood and it groaned, shaking under her weight as the woman that had been sitting at that table brought her beer bottle downward, toward Buffy’s head. She rolled, falling off and onto the tiled floor, taking the impact on her knees and palms slapping the floor. 

Hands wrapped around her shoulders, dragged her onto her feet and Buffy went for the knife at her waist as the window behind them shuddered, cracked and continued to shatter as the teenager crawled his way through. Buffy lifted her head, looked up and into the pretty face of the woman holding her full weight with ease and winced as the brunette’s eyes rolled back, exposing the white as she looked over Buffy’s shoulder. 

“She’s prettier than the last one.” 

The throaty purr quality to her voice had Buffy grudgingly push her attractiveness up a notch even with the creepy odd eyes. Those seemingly sightless eyes shifted back down and Buffy offered her a tight-lipped smile. “Thanks,” was stated without much enthusiasm before she let go of her knife, for the moment, and caught either hand that sat on her shoulders and jerked them apart before snapping her head forward into an exaggerated sneeze movement that connected her forehead with the taller woman’s chin. 

“Bitch!” 

Buffy stumbled back from her and the growled word as she snapped back, “Pot, kettle!” 

Her hand eased into the back pocket of her jeans and without warning she was airborne, again. The refrigerator slammed backwards as she struck it, cracking the drywall and raining dust as Buffy landed in an ungraceful heap in front of it. The world tilted before it righted and she pushed herself up, ignoring the protest of the shoulder she landed on and finally succeeded in tugging the flask free, quickly unscrewing the cap. 

The teenager advanced first, his eyes smoldered, red streaking beneath the blue until it overpowered the other color as Buffy pushed herself onto shaking legs. His voice deepened, lips curling as he snarled, “You’re gonna die.” 

An answering smirk twisted Buffy’s mouth as she snapped, “Seriously? That’s your best threat?” 

Those angry eyes narrowed and the woman behind the teenager snorted, “She’s right you know. That was pretty lame.” 

Buffy’s eyes widened when he spun towards his companion and snarled at her to shut her mouth. The woman lifted her hands and took a step back as Buffy took one forward, waited for the teenager to turn back around before she splashed the holy water in his face. Smoke billowed upwards and he shrieked, falling back a step and the woman lunged, catching the arm that held the flask with one hand and Buffy’s shoulder with the other. She used her grip on both to slam her backwards, into the refrigerator and Buffy grunted as her arm struck the metal edge of the fridge.

Another sharp shove and a spasm opened her hand, the flask falling from suddenly useless fingers and Buffy’s free hand reached for the knife at her waist as the demon let go of her arm and shoulder to cup her face, tilt it back. “Teach not thy lip such scorn, for it was made for kissing.” 

Her next breath caught in her throat and Buffy eased back from the demon inching its face closer, positive she did not want the kiss they offered—outside of the fact that she just wasn’t into girls. Trembling fingers wound around the knife’s handle, freeing it and she took a quick breath before slipping her arm between the hands cupping her face and plunged the knife up and into the soft skin beneath the demon’s chin. The iron cast blade slid through that tender flesh and the muscles of the tongue to lodge in the bone at the roof of her mouth. 

Those white eyes widened, a muffled scream, because her mouth wouldn’t open wide enough for a loud one, slipped out and around Buffy as she shoved the demon trying frantically to remove the iron from her flesh as it began to smolder and ash. She stumbled past her—running, running was a sound plan.

Buffy ignored the fact that she should reclaim her knife because the demon would more than likely stick it in _her_ once it got the blade free and stopped short when the teenager blocked her path to the window. 

“Come on,” the frustrated words were followed by a sweep of red-eyes’ arm and Buffy twisted to the side, felt the backwash of something strike the side of her and she stumbled through the open entry of the kitchen into the living room. Falling to her knees, she rolled, felt the ground thud as the teenager put his boot against the carpet where her spine had been. She rose, turned and ducked the next swing of his arm and caught it, brought her own closed fist backhanded across his jaw. 

His head snapped to the side, vertebra cracking with the movement and Buffy didn’t hesitate, she shoved forward, foot catching the back of his leg and spilled him on his ass before stepping away. A man, stretched tall and thin, rose from the couch and his gaze, still remarkably human, flicked from her and to the bookshelf behind him. Buffy followed that telling shift in focus and did a quick inventory of the bric-a-brac and books before her eyes narrowed and a nasty smile spilled across her lips. 

A pointed chin rose, thrusting toward the wooden box that so resembled her own and Buffy prompted, “What’cha got there?” 

He moved out from between the coffee table and couch, the television still laughing, still mocking the situation as he stated, voice bland. “That is none of your concern.” 

Buffy turned, keeping him in front of her as her head cocked. “I kinda think it is.” 

His gaze flicked behind her and Buffy tensed, then cried out as the edge of a blade, more than likely hers, cut across her back, split her sweater, tank and skin in that easy movement and she fell to one knee. Warm blood spilled from the wound, trickled down her skin to meet with the soft fabric of her tank top as she reached up her jean leg. Cold fingers wrapping around the handle of the smaller knife and she yanked down, freeing it and rose spinning, brought that smaller, sharper blade across the stomach of the white-eyed demon. 

She staggered back, the iron-clad knife lowering to her side as she blinked, frowned down at the slit in her shirt and abdomen. Buffy swallowed thickly when she saw pink intestine pushed out from the wound she’d inflicted and the demon lifted her head, smiled. “You’re not hurting me you know.” That head cocked, pale brown hair spilling around her shoulders. “Not really. The meat suit though…” she trailed off and shrugged, “she’s as good as dead.” 

Movement out of the corner of her eye had Buffy spinning, ducking away from outreached hand of demon from the couch. She turned, brought her elbow up and into the female demon’s throat, she gagged and snarled as the teenager rose and Buffy rolled her eyes, ignored the truth in her words and fought harder. She dropped the useless knife and her arms rose in a smooth arch, hands cupping before she boxed the teenager’s ears. He grunted as his eardrums blew out and she eased her hands upward, wound her fingers in his hair and brought his face down and into her knee. 

Once, twice and shoved him away as the taller demon struck her back, her wound and brought her to knees as pain overwhelmed her ability to stand. Buffy’s head bowed a moment and then rose to find the teenager smirking at her, the blood from the broken nose she’d inflicted coated his mouth and chin, made the smile a macabre gesture. A hand settled over her right shoulder, torqued her body, her back and wound as it yanked her away from that bloody face and onto her feet. 

A wide hand caught her throat, squeezed and Buffy felt something shift before the pain registered and she drove her own tiny fist into the demon’s throat. She felt hard and soft things give beneath the blow and winced, knew there was a person in there, unlike a vampire, but the grip on her loosened and she sucked in a breath before he dropped her. She could hear the echo of footsteps heading down the stairs and wondered vaguely why the bad guys, who were already winning, got to have back up. 

She stumbled back and turned, saw the teenager rising to his feet and placed herself directly in front of the bookshelf. Her eyes narrowed as she asked, “Outta the whammy already?” Her head cocked, voice turning considering, “So you’re just a minute man?”

An enraged, unintelligible sound raised the fine hairs along the back of her neck and the taller demon wheezed the word, “No,” but she was already arcing backwards. She struck the bookshelf, the pressure on her chest breaking the shelves, sending her through them to hit the wall and she slid down it. The books and bric-a-brac followed her down, beating against her already battered form and her head lulled, arms falling to her sides. 

She reached out blindly, fingers brushing over books before they settled on the box, smeared across the smooth surface as she rolled it into her lap, fumbling to open it. She frowned down at a revolver nestled in velvet, the markings along its wooden handle and metal barrel looked oddly familiar. Buffy smiled and lifted her head as her right hand slipped into the box, pulled out the gun and pointed it towards the three demons standing in front of her. 

They flinched, each taking back a step even as the tallest, pressed a hand into his throat, straightening his larynx enough to speak. “Hand that over and we’ll let you walk out of here alive.” 

“How ‘bout no?” Buffy glanced down at the gun and then back up to demons. “I’m thinking _this_ ,” she waved the barrel back and forth to encompass all three, “is my ticket outta here alive.” 

“Never gonna happen, sweetie.” 

Buffy blinked, turned her head to see a fourth demon enter the room and the tallest demon lunged forward. Her head snapped back to center, she aimed and fired. Wincing when the gun recoiled and Buffy watched, with a perverse sense of satisfaction, as a neat hole appeared in the center of that demon’s forehead. A sickly green fire swirled up through the brown of his eyes before it sparked, smoke escaping the bullet hole and light flared within his skull, highlighting the tendons and bone, as the bullet sank into grey matter and he fell to his knees and then backwards.

The two demons directly in front Buffy stared at her with wide, suddenly human, eyes before their heads snapped back and smoke billowed out of the their mouths, escaping the room, the house through the broken window. The fourth demon stared down at its fallen comrade and the rage painted across his features was a frightening thing, but Buffy was just too tired, too numb to give a damn. 

“Get gone,” she cocked the gun and swung it towards him, “Or get dead.” 

She winced, not her best quip, but it got her point across just fine as the demon’s neck arched, mouth thrown open and more smoke expelled out of the only human she hadn’t beaten on to follow the others in their retreat. The hand holding the gun dropped into her lap and Buffy’s head lowered, chin falling to rest against her chest as she struggled to overlook the throbbing ache that was her back and just be grateful to be alive. 

Her lashes dipped, the muscles around her mouth tightening as she attempted to breath through the pain and the hand around the gun tightened. Keeping her grip on the only thing keeping her alive she braced a forearm against the wall behind her and used that small leverage to drag herself onto her feet. She swallowed the pain-filled gasp as the diagonal wound across her back protested the movement and she stumbled forward, toward the three bodies slumped against each other. 

The one she’d shot was gone, blood and thicker things spreading across the carpet beneath him and Buffy shuffled past him, barely lifting her feet so that she could retrieve her weapons. The kitchen was quiet, drywall dust still heavy on the air as she located Doyle’s flask and returned it to her back pocket. She entered the living room again; steps slow and precise as she kept her gaze averted from the broken and bloody form of the teenager and ignored the gaping hole in the woman’s chin as she retrieved the iron blade and smaller knife. 

Buffy stood and paused, lifted her eyes to stare at the wall above the television and whispered, “I’m sorry.” 

She made it past the fourth unmoving body, their eyes wide and sightless, and out the front door, over the lawn and past the mailbox before she lost what little she’d eaten that day at the street’s edge. She used the hand holding the gun to cross her stomach as the laceration burned along her back and bile burned her throat. Her heaving turned to ragged coughs as tears blurred her vision and she straightened, used the sleeve of her sweater to wipe at her mouth. 

A hiccup lifted her shoulders and Buffy righted herself, replaced the larger blade in its sheath with the mental promise to clean both the first chance she got as she moved away from the house. The smaller knife tapped against her thigh and Buffy kept the hand clutching the gun close to her core, nearly cradled against her body. Her stride was quick, if wounded, as she made her way past the two vacant homes and closer to her car and the small feeling of security it would offer. 

She crossed the street, boots making angry clicks before she stumbled, coming up short when a small form detached itself from the tree line and moved into the center of the paved road. The moon had barely risen, sunset still having passed only a little while before leaving the street in near darkness. Buffy let the hand holding the gun drop, fall against her side as she straightened her hunched shoulders and turned her quick steps into a slow stroll. 

Their arms were crossed tight against their chest and Buffy frowned as she got closer and a distinctly female form could be made out. She didn’t hesitate and continued onward, watched that female form come into focus as she in turn took a few steps forward herself, revealing faded jeans worn over scuffed boots. A grey shirt with the black design of skulls and sparrows could be seen beneath a quasi-familiar priest collar jacket and Buffy stopped, met her brown-eyed stare with her narrowing one as the edge of her tattoo came to life with pinpricks. 

“Do I need to bother with the Latin or do you just wanna admit to being a demon?”

She blinked and her eyes opened, filled with black as her head cocked, brown hair shifting around her shoulders. “Nice work with the horsemen.” A shoulder lifted, dropped. “Of course, I would have shot _all_ of them, but at least Death’s outta the picture now.” 

“You’re right.” Buffy lifted the gun, aimed between those black eyes and arched a brow. “I should shoot demons first, think about their hosts never.” 

“Cute.” She blinked, eyes reverting to normal, peaceful as she gazed down the barrel of the gun. “Don’t suppose I could convince you to hand that over, could I?” 

A laugh spilled past Buffy’s lips, harsh and humorless. “I’m so not in the mood for this.” 

She cocked the gun and watched the demon roll her eyes. “Can the dramatic posturing. If you were going to shoot me you would have done it already.” 

“Is that a fact?” 

“Yeah.” She took another step forward, eyes narrowing to slits. “It is.” 

Her shoulders sagged and the gun fell to her side, thumb easing the hammer forward again before she asked, “Don’t suppose I could convince you to leave your host, could I?” 

The demon snorted, arms uncrossing to slip her hands into the back pockets of her jeans. “Did that question sound as lame when I asked it?” 

“Worse.” 

Her mouth opened, tongue gliding along the edge of her teeth as her nostrils flared and Buffy ignored the flash of humor she saw there. “You don’t even know what you have, do you?” 

“I know it makes your kind back up.” Buffy cocked her head, ignored the twinge of pain that small movement caused and knew she was going to feel like complete and utter crap in the morning—if she lived that long. “Not much else I need to know at the moment.” 

“Fair enough.” She took another step closer and Buffy’s hand twitched, tensing around the gun and the demon noticed the movement, frowned. “You’re pretty beat up.” 

Her head turned to the side, mouth curving up at the corners. “Way to state the obvious. Want me to hold up a hand and you guess how many fingers next?” 

A square jaw clenched, thrust forward at Buffy before the demon rolled her eyes again. “You need a hospital.” 

“What I _need_ is you far, far away from me.” 

“I can help you.” 

Buffy shook her head, lifted the gun. “And I can blow your inky black brains out.” 

Her arms came forward, spread out at her sides, hands empty and face calm, her entire posture screaming harmless. “I just want to help.” 

“And I just want you gone.” Buffy kept her arm steady, her next breath expelling outward with a sigh as she sighted down her arm. “So go.” 

The street before her was suddenly empty and Buffy’s arm sagged, falling to her side once more as she turned, looked around the forest surrounding the road. The hand holding the gun tensed, fingers gripping the wooden handle tighter as she turned, started toward her Civic again and muttered quietly, “I’m never getting use to that.”


	15. The end of the beginning.

Chapter 15: The end of the beginning.

Cleaning wounds without a Watcher’s assistance was harder than Buffy had anticipated and since she lacked a contortionist’s flexibility she’d had to settle for simply wrapping her back. The neat butterfly bandages had been left sink-side along with her recently scrubbed knives and their sheaths. She’d managed to pack up most of her belongings, organizing the disorder of the room, and create a salt line along the windows and doors before primetime television had even started.

The sounds of a cop drama was a comforting white noise as she sat on the edge of the bed, turning over the gun she’d killed humans to obtain. Her stomach rolled, mouth watering as she swallowed down the bitter taste of bile and pushed out the cylinder of the gun, saw three bullets still nestled inside and snapped it shut. The revolver was old, that much she could tell, but well maintained and she’d already taken a picture of it and sent it to Willow in the hopes of her coming up with something useful on it. 

She flinched, bruised shoulders sagging with the memory of Willow’s frantic voice as she shot rapid fire questions and Buffy had assured her she was fine—or as fine as she was going to get—before bringing up the gun. A gun that could kill demons, scared them and that was almost enough information on it. Keyword almost. She sighed and rose, making her way to the small table set beneath the window that overlooked the parking lot and the box she’d snagged from the trunk compartment when she’d put away the salt and holy water. 

Her thumb pushed the latch, popping the lid and it eased up a bit before Buffy pushed it open and deposited the gun next to the satchel. She paused, fingertips running over the soft felt and sent a silent ‘thank you’ to Willow since she’d made it out of that damned house alive. Dropping the bit of protection back into the box, Buffy caught the lid and snapped it shut. 

Taking a step back from the table she adjusted the nylon wrappings, which held the gauze to her knife wound, beneath the thin camisole she wore. The wrap started just bellow her breasts and went all the way down to the swell of her hips, making posture important and had her hoping against hope that the wound was scabbed over by morning so she could forgo the use of it in the car. The laceration started just below her right shoulder blade, a deep nick, then skipped over several inches of flesh to start again next to her spine, crossing it and arching downwards. 

She didn’t need a doctor to tell her that had the demon _not_ rushed the slash she’d be paralyzed or worse at the moment, but then she’d done worse to their human hosts. The tightness in her stomach increased and she blinked back tears, moving past the bed and toward the bathroom to hover in the doorway. The urge to dry heave, since there was nothing left in her stomach, at the toilet warred with the feeling that she was debasing herself, her calling. 

Her conscience beat her will as she fell to her knees and was sick for the third time since she’d gotten back to the hotel. Tears blurred her vision and her throat burned by the time she’d finished, stomach and hands trembling as she flushed and turned to lean against the bathtub. A weakness had settled in her legs and arms as she leaned back, hissed as she put pressure on her wound and blinked up at the watermarked ceiling. 

A minute passed, slipping into several before she felt well enough to rise on shaking legs and stumble to the sink. She ignored the red edge to her eyes and used a damp cloth to wipe her face and the back of her neck before beginning the arduous task of brushing her teeth. The calming up and down, back and forth movement did little to help her frazzled nerves as she replaced the acidic taste of bile with peppermint and spat out the rest. 

Fumbling fingers tightened the loosened drawstring of her cargo slacks as she exited the bathroom and stumbled, nearly falling when she saw Castiel standing near the window. His back was to her, the same trench coat covering him from shoulder to calf, but unmarked, when she knew for certain she’d shredded it under her blade. An attack that was similar to the one she’d just been subjected to while fighting the horsemen. 

Buffy snorted, perhaps God was punishing her for attempting to harm his angel, and drew said angel’s focus away from the window and towards her. Blue eyes searched her face and body, taking in the scuff marks and bruises along her exposed shoulders. They hesitated a moment on the scar he, himself, had inflicted before returning to her face. “You are unwell?”

A slight tilt on the tail end of his short statement made it a question and Buffy shrugged, face tightening as the movement pulled at the wound on her back, and eased her way further into the room. “It’s more mental than physical.” 

Those searching eyes narrowed. “Explain.” 

“Not sure I can.” 

“Please, try.” 

A brow arched and Buffy moved closer to him, making her way past the foot of the bed and paused at the corner. Her chin rose as she looked up at him and offered, “Do you ever feel remorse?” 

He blinked, chin dipping toward his chest. “There are times. Yes.” 

The brow rose to meet its sister as Buffy lifted her arms, crossed them beneath her breasts and asked, “And you know what I did?” 

Another slow dipping of his chin accompanied the statement, “I was made aware.” 

“I killed those people.” Buffy shook her head, clarified, “Their hosts.” 

His lips parted, tongue easing forward to dampen them as his brows dipped down, a thin line appearing between them. “Your actions this night made little difference to their survival.” His head inclined and he stepped closer. “The very essence of these particular demons would have corrupted their vessels.” 

“Meaning?” 

“They were more than likely already dead.” 

She swallowed, “Oh,” and sat on the corner of the bed, legs suddenly not up to the effort of holding her upright. Her head tilted back as she kept her gaze on Castiel and offered him a tired smile. “That really doesn’t change anything though, does it?” She saw the instant flash of confusion and added, “Everything I did to them. Every wound I inflicted was done before I knew. The pain and would’a’been death I caused isn’t any less horrible knowing what I know now.” 

Her spine stiffened, straightened as Castiel’s mouth dipped at the edges and he moved to her side and sat, the mattress sinking with his added weight. Pale hands settled on his bent knees and his gaze once again settled on the window with its curtains drawn, blocking out the night. A moment of silence passed between them and Buffy kept herself still, afraid to move or scare off the only bit of semi-familiar, semi-friendly company she’d had around her in days. 

His voice was soft when he finally spoke and if Buffy knew him better she’d guess he sounded tired when he stated with great sincerity, “I am sorry.” 

“What?” The harshness of her one word response had Buffy flinching and she turned her body, stared at the side of his more than adequate profile and tried again. “What could you possibly be sorry for?” 

“I underestimated you.” His tongue eased out again and her head cocked as she studied Castiel, pulling back slightly when he turned his head to face her. “I did not anticipate your discovery of the Lilith's horsemen to happen in such haste.” 

Her head lowered, eyes trained on the hands in her lap, the slight bruising on her knuckles would be gone by morning—sometimes the side effects of being a Slayer didn’t suck. Buffy watched her hands ball into fists and then flattened them, smoothed over the legs of her cargos before she muttered, her voice mocking, “I’m just full of surprises.” 

“Yes, you are.” Green eyes rose, caught the nod of agreement that accompanied Castiel’s statement and her lips quirked as he grew graver—and until that moment Buffy hadn’t know Castiel could _be_ anymore grave. “My orders were to prepare you. To ensure that Samuel Colt’s gun was recovered. I failed in my task.” 

“Um,” a brow arched, “didn’t I accomplish that?” After a beat she hastily added, “I’m sure the info you’d have given me would have been super helpful, but we got the gun. So there’s that _and_ one horsemen down.” Her shoulders lifted and fell, “Granted three left to go, but I’d still chalk up this misadventure as a win for the good guys.” 

Buffy thought she caught a minute twitching around Castiel’s, far too well proportioned, mouth and she swallowed, dragging her gaze from the day’s worth of stumble marring his chin to meet his considering gaze. His brows had pulled together again, drawing low over his blue eyes as they swept over her face. “I am sorry though.” 

The mattress groaned as she shifted back, a blush staining her cheeks as she offered the current Scooby-favored conversational sidestep. “No big.” Those blue eyes blinked and lost some of their intensity as a confused light dawned and Buffy trudged onward, changing the subject if Castiel would let her. “So what were you doing?” 

“I have another charge.” 

“That’s cool.” She frowned, shook off the nagging sense of disappointment. “I mean, it’s not like I can expect you to perch on my shoulder twenty-four-seven,” she frowned, her voice slipping toward serious, “especially _not_ when I’m in the shower.” 

Her eyes widened when she thought Castiel chuckled—or possibly coughed— and Buffy swallowed, finally sucking it up and looked toward the angel next to her. He was still studying a point beyond the closed curtains, but his mouth was doing, what Buffy assumed was, the closet thing Castiel got to a smile as he stated, “You are less…” he trailed off and paused, as if searching for the right word before settling on, “difficult than them.” 

“Than who?” His head turned, intense gaze boring into Buffy’s once more and understanding crept its way forward as she clarified, “Your other charge.” She offered him a quick baring of teeth. “Oh, and I’m plenty difficult.” 

His brows lowered, chin lifting toward her before he stated, “Thirty-two, ninety-two.” 

“I’m going to assume you mean north and west again.” Buffy shook her head and asked, “Can’t you just tell me the city and state?” 

Green eyes shifted back toward him and Buffy’s shoulders dipped when she saw the space beside her was empty. A crease in the comforter was all that was left of Castiel’s presence and Buffy sighed as she pushed herself onto her feet, making her way towards the nightstand and her currently charging cell phone to text Willow. 

Her mouth thinned as she muttered, tone self-defensive, “I’m fun to hang out with.” Her shoulders tensed, chin falling to rest against her chest. “And I’m talking to myself again,” she sighed, “See? Fun had by all.”

~*~

Flames arched upward, licking the sky and stealing the night, sucking it away from the burning home and its yard. The orange fire burned brighter, clearer and danced its way into the upper story of the home as Ruby took a step back, turned on her boot heel and strolled down the driveway as the flames reached the kitchen and the flammable products under the sink. The front windows of the home blew, the heat of the fire swept outward, lifting the long waves of her hair.

They crowded her face and she pushed at them absently before pausing at the mailbox, knees bending as she squatted down. Her nose wrinkled at the bitter scent of ruminated food and she felt the small release of self as the eyes of her meat-suit filled with her essence and she lifted a hand over the bit of human waste and muttered, _“Cremo.”_

The damp grass around the puddle sparked, smoked and burst into flame. It rolled inward, consuming the last traces of the hunter that had disbanded the four and obtained the Colt. Ruby’s head lifted, hand falling away from the small fire as she swallowed down her bit of freedom, eyes reverting to human. She glanced up at the burning home, watched as the smoke rose higher and the roof partially collapsed under the strain of the flames. 

Soot and ash rose up, sparks rising and spreading with them as Ruby turned, made her way across the street and to her car as the first echo of sirens filled the night. She caught the handle, opening the door with only a faint groan of protest as she eased herself behind the wheel. Snatching up the keys from a cup holder, she slipped them into the ignition and eased the car forward and down Haven before reaching into the inside of pocket of her leather jacket. 

The wide cell phone felt awkward in her small hands and, not for the first time, Ruby wished she’d found a socially conscious body that had been a little larger. With a sigh she dialed the only number in her phone book and turned the wheel sharply, taking the turn without bothering to stop as the white and red lights of a fire-truck filled her rearview. 

Another turn and three rings later the other end finally picked up and Ruby ignored the quiet irritation in his voice and didn’t bother to mask the worry in her own as she growled, “Sam? We have a problem.”

The end.


End file.
